Green Eyed Evenings
by SkyKissed
Summary: Taylor's not an overly jealous man, not really, and rationality tells him he has no right being jealous now. Somehow that doesn't stop him from hauling Wash out of the interrogation chamber as if she's just betrayed the colony.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: First off, this is something of a sister story/sequel to **Good Cop, Bad Cop**. I'd recommend reading that first or this one likely won't make a lot of sense.

Second, I rage quit this more times than you want to know. But some of the lovely ladies over at livejournal, and Inu, wanted to see how JealousTaylor would react to Wash using sexy interrogation on someone else. I wanted to write a one shot. A sexy one shot with possessive action. Sat down to write it and what happens? BAMF essentially gave me the finger.

So sorry dears, you get four to five chapters of build up before that because it's the ONLY WAY to make this even slightly _arguably_ in character. Just think of it as like…when your mom made you eat vegetables before dessert. Makes things better, right? WRONG. It was a lie then. It's probably a lie now. xD But we'll get there. Eventually.

Longest, most rambling, note ever done, read on.

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><p><strong>Green Eyed Evenings<strong>

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><p>And to think, her morning had started off so well.<p>

In the grand scheme of things, Alicia Washington could not say she'd had many overtly strenuous mornings since arriving in Terra Nova. She couldn't say she _appreciated_ having to awaken before dawn every morning to lead patrols but it was most certainly preferable to her tenure as a soldier. Very rarely did she awaken to someone shooting at her, or Taylor shouting commands. It was, all in all, a very relaxing change of pace.

Until today.

It had begun as any other day, her patrol going off without a hitch. She'd met with Shannon to follow some new lead he'd had (something about _another_ gambling ring, hardly life or death) and the two had solved the case before noon. They'd had maybe an hour or so before they had to report to Taylor and the day was a particularly fine one, not a cloud in sight, the temperature tolerably warm. It seemed a waste not to do something.

He owed her a drink, but offers to buy her lunch instead. They are engaged in a (nearly) playful conversation regarding their respective marksmanship (she's the better shot; he insists she's compensating for something with that rifle; she laughs but still hits him) when all hell breaks loose. A piece of fruit halfway to her mouth, she becomes aware of the man in front of them about a hundred paces. She hasn't seen him before or at least can't place him. From the way Shannon stiffens beside her he's also aware of it.

They aren't far from the Commander Center, the gate is in sight. Taylor's assembled the majority of their troops for their weekly (daily, she corrects, the man's positively obsessed with keeping morale up) pep talk. His arms are behind his back and he's pacing, looking dourly handsome in his dark jacket, tone conversational. In the burning afternoon heat, he appears unfazed, composed and simply a _leader_. The kids are watching him with rapt intensity, hanging off each of his words. It's one of his greatest strengths. Taylor's damn charismatic and just has a way of speaking that…she doesn't know. But she remembers the feeling, remembers that she'd been ready to take a bullet for the man almost the first day in his unit. If anything the years have only rendered him more proficient at it.

His tone rises as he emphasizes something or other (the need for vigilance, how they must protect the colony, second chances; she's memorized all his talking points though she never tires of hearing them). The kids eat it up, goofy smiles on their young faces. It's something she's seen often enough over the years but it never ceases to cause her heart to flutter (absurdly, stupidly, _childishly_…) in her chest.

The stranger isn't walking quite right. It's subtle, but there is a tenseness in his posture that denotes he isn't simply walking the streets. He's nervous, uncomfortable, not at home. He glances around, hands drop to his belt.

Both she and Shannon pick up the pace. The cop's hand moves to the holster on his hip, throws her a glance to make sure they're on a similar wave length. She nods curtly, the motion causing the fringe of her bangs to fall over her eye, her own hand moving. They separate, space their movements, one coming in on the right, the other on the left, careful to keep out of his peripheral vision. They remain silent only because the area is teeming with civilians. No use causing a panic over nothing.

She really wishes they would have.

The man gets closer, finally stops about a foot from her commanding officer. The stranger calls his name. His free hand pulls something ever so subtly from beneath the confines of his jacket. There's very little doubt in her mind as to what it is. A gun. Because it's always a gun, isn't it?

"Nathaniel!"

She isn't entirely certain if it's her or the assailant who cries out.

For one unbearable moment, time and her world seems to freeze. Breathing becomes impossible, a weight on her chest. She simply watches, helpless as Taylor half turns to meet his addressor. A bang, blood. He's falling; she's running. She absently aware of his assailant hauling ass in the opposite direction, leaping over stands in the market. Idiot. Can't they ever plan an escape route that causes less havoc, takes less time to clean up? Amazing, the sort of nonsensical ideas that rush through one's mind as panic overtakes reason.

She isn't sure if she and Shannon even exchange a glance; an understanding simply passes between them. Jim gives her a shove forward, taking off after the fleeing man. Before she can even contemplate what she's doing Wash is hurtling towards her Commander. Through sheer luck or desperation she manages to reach him before he falls, her arms wrapping about his chest. His weight is to greatly superior to her own for her to stop his momentum entirely but she effectively breaks his fall, his head resting against her own as she sinks to her knees. She feels blood, warm and sticky, through the fabric of his shirt, the liquid smearing across her exposed shoulder. Thanks god she isn't squeamish and has spent the better part of her adult life covered in his blood, macabre though the image is.

Civilians are screaming around them, ducking for cover. Some of the soldiers take off after Shannon, some stand helplessly by, not knowing what to do with themselves. There's a crash and a scream some distance away and something that sounds dangerously akin to gun fire. She looks up long enough to bark orders, tells the kids to move their asses. Positive thoughts aren't going to catch their assassin and neither is them standing there looking spellbound. A private nearly trips over himself in his rush to get away from her.

She thinks she hears Taylor chuckle at her vitriol (and she represses the urge to rage at him or at least hit him for being so _stupid_ and _insufferable_, for letting himself get shot. She refrains only because the anger is more fully directed at herself for not acting more quickly), sees him smile up at her as she strips off her coat, presses it hard against the wound (she'll regret it later; the wound's hardly fatal, just a nuisance, really, and it ruins her favorite jacket). Taylor moves to assist her, rests his far larger hand over her own to keep the pressure on. She'd find it romantic or at least a little endearing if she weren't so busy trying to keep from bleeding out (he isn't, she's well aware, but she has to keep herself busy somehow).

The medically proficient half of her is quickly taking stock of his wounds. The bullets to high to really make an impact; its hit his upper arm more than anything else and it's passed cleanly through. Signing requisition forms for the next few weeks is going to be a pain in the ass but he's hardly going to die.

_All the difficulty of infiltrating the colony and Mira's chosen a bad shot_. Mentally, she chuckles at the absurdity.

The rational side of her knows he's not really in any danger. The bruising will be bad, it'll be painful but he's had worse in both fields. It's not even the first time someone's attempted to take his life. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing they haven't already done before, a scenario that's played out a thousand times. She doesn't dare move though, just keeps the pressure on, feels the blood seeping between her fingers. They're both well aware he's alright. Even if he isn't a trained medic, he's taken enough wounds to know what dying feels like. This isn't it. It's painful, but it's nothing like dying. Still, he doesn't try to move away, permits her to fuss over him (he's just been _shot_; no one's going to question the decision). It's the closest they've been for weeks. Consciously or not they've been putting distance between each other.

She can't say she regrets their little encounter in the interrogation room (it's very difficult for her to regret good sex, especially when it's with him) but she can say with some certainly that it's left things more awkward between them than it's been for years. The ease, the friendliness, remains but its left them in some horrific state of limbo, neither entirely certain what to do about their romantic involvement. They aren't overtly fond of discussing such things and so it simply hangs between them, a tension to address at a later date. And when that date arrives they'll simply postpone it again. It's just their way.

So at the moment, it's just one off sex. She's fine with that. Only it leaves highly insubordinate thoughts racing through her mind.

His proximity brings back flashes, memories, skin on skin, his lips on her neck, her breasts, his breath against her cheek. A silent challenge between them, the wall digging against her shoulders…

_Interrogate me, lieutenant. _

She's not entirely certain there's a less appropriate moment for such thoughts to manifest. He's just been _shot_. He's _bleeding_. She's _covered_ in his _blood_. And yet away her thoughts go. She growls to herself, shakes her head, clears away the offending images. From the way he's staring up at her, entirely to amused, he's managed to catch at least a bit of her straying train of thought. She presses down harder on his shoulder; he grunts.

He doesn't look in the least repentant.

They don't speak (though he continues to stare at her in that fascinating way, almost as if he's considering saying something only to think better of it) till the medical staff arrives. It takes a very irate Dr. Shannon ordering her to step back for her to turn him over to their care. Despite their best efforts to dissuade her, she trails along beside the stretcher, barking orders at the panicking soldiers still milling about the market square. He continues to stare at her, amused and proud and in obvious pain. He doesn't ask her to leave and so she remains (despite the medical staff's protests) in the clinic for the duration of his treatment.

It takes a very sweaty, very winded, Jim Shannon assuring her they caught the assassin for her to leave his bedside. She gives his arm a squeeze, sets her shoulders.

As she leaves he stares after her.

* * *

><p>An: Sorry, loves, short prologue is short. But now we can start the interrogation times. With Jim. Have I mentioned I love Jim yet this week? Well I do. Next chapter has a lot of him and Wash so it'll assuredly be better/less awkward/less sickening short.


	2. Chapter 2: Not Jealous

A/N: The Sixer in this chapter was originally named Gary Cardigan. He was the poshest, snarkiest, Sixer you ever did meet. He was an avid Jim/Wash shipper and he was freakin' hilarious. Only he was too cracked out even by _my _standards and so he was replaced by this freak. I loved Gary. I miss him. :D

Perspective switching fun times ahead, kiddies! Strap in we've got some ground to cover.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

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><p>He's not an assassin.<p>

Hell, that wasn't even why Mira'd sent him. One simple task and he couldn't even do that.

The Sixer (he refuses to use his name, even in his head. Because if he knows it, _they_ might know it, right? They have no right, he won't give it them, he won't, he won't, he _won't_) glances about himself, eyes darting to and fro focusing on nothing while trying to take in everything. It's silent, too silent, all the sounds of nature and the life just outside completely cut off. There's only the stone and the light (to bright, it hurts his eyes) and the unnatural feeling of claustrophobia. He tries his hands only to feel the bite of cuffs.

They've caught him. He's failed.

Failed, failed, failed, _failed_.

Mira hates failure. Really hates it.

So he won't fail again, will he? No, they'll torture him and interrogate him like the superior colonist bastards they are but they won't get anything. Not from him. He won't fail again (he won't, he won't, he _won't_).

He takes a steadying breath. Allows his eyes to adjust to the light, however disconcerting it is. The area around him is painfully bright, a stark contrast to the dim red glow of the rest of the area. A desk has been moved into the chamber, one chair, waiting patiently for its master, behind it. He listens to the sound of his breathing, the drip drop of some far away liquid. Listens to the rise and fall of his chest, listens to the steps in the hall and frantic whispers. Not whispers. Conversation, heated, that he's just barely able to make out.

The door slides open, a soundless whoosh, and two figures step into his room. It doesn't take a genius to recognize them. They're clean, they're beautiful, their faces to stoic for ones so attractive. Power does that to people, or so he's told. It's the same miserably serious look Mira's often plagued with.

In the jungle, they identify the colonists less by their names and more by their association with Taylor. His jailors are well known in the camp. Taylor's new pet project, the courageous Jim Shannon, takes his seat at the desk. The smile on his face is far from friendly.

It's the second figure that interests him more. The Sixer watches her closely, green eyes following, tracing, each of her movements. Her eyes are narrowed, dark, her movements graceful and steeled, something like a knife draped in silk. Midnight dark hair frames a face that's somehow beautiful despite its severity. There's only one woman like her in the colony.

Alicia Washington, the bitch queen of Terra Nova herself.

He offers her his most winning smile, leans back in his chair. The cop is talking but he ignores him. What good is there in watching that man when there's something so much more pleasant to catalogue? The queen (Taylor's queen, pretty, pretty thing, so strong, so steeled, so f_rustrated_) refuses to shift under his gaze, doesn't even deign him worthy of acknowledgment. It's doesn't bother him.

As long as he's here, so shall she be. Because he's tried to hurt her man, hasn't he? Because he's bad, bad, bad and Taylor's good, good, good, hmm? His pretty queen tilts her head to the side, exposes the column of her neck, the curtain of dark hair spilling across her shoulder. Exchanges a glance with the less interesting man, and speaks.

Her voice drips with loathing barely concealed, hidden under a veil of false civility, "Mr. Shannon asked you your name."

He doesn't answer. He won't answer. Simply stares and catalogues her reactions. He has all night. He has many nights, no use placating her, hmm?

They'll torture and interrogate him (and he can't help but preen under the woman's dark eyes) but they won't get anything. Not from him. He won't fail again, he won't, he won't, he won't.

* * *

><p>The moment she and Shannon are safely out of the chamber she feels the need to scrub herself clean. Jim closes the door behind them, shakes his head. For a moment, the always chatty man is silent, his eyes uncharacteristically serious as he turns to look at her. "Do I need to tell you how much I hate that guy? Because I hate him."<p>

She smiles, "I got that impression."

"Jesus, Wash, I didn't think…I don't know," he shakes his head, moves towards the stairs. "A part of me doesn't wonder if it's just an excuse for Mira to unload him on us."

"Good detective work, Shannon."

"Don't get snarky with me, woman. I caught the guy." He takes a steadying breath. It's been a while since he's had to deal with anyone really and truly cracked. The man's tame compared to some of the creeps he's dealt with, but that doesn't make him any less unpleasant. And he doesn't like, not for a second, the way the guy's eyes crawl over the lieutenant, the way he watches Jim's friend.

He has a wife and two daughters, Shannon's well aware he's protective (occasionally overly so) of the women in his life. After all the time they've spent together, the months of work, Wash is pretty damn near family. Creeps aren't allowed to look at his family like that.

He'd break the guy's nose if he wasn't entirely convinced Wash would string him up for it.

She gives his shoulder a pacifying pat, flashes a weary grin. They're outside again, the fresh air already beginning to clean away the memories of the chamber below. They allow the subject to drop. Instead, he chooses one he knows is on more even territory. "How's Taylor holding up?"

Wash arches a brow, "He's been shot."

"And that's new?"

She doesn't bother to hide her inelegant snort, "If only." And they're walking. They don't discuss it but both are aware of their destination. The medical compound. It isn't by choice but Elisabeth has undoubtedly kept Taylor holed up there. Under her orders he'll remain there for the duration of the night. He'll bristle and pace like some caged animal but he won't risk running Doc Shannon's wrath.

"He's going to want an update on our new friend."

She nods. Rubs her arm unconsciously. It leaves flakes of dried blood on her exposed skin. The crazy girl had been in such a rush (first to her commander, then to the prisoner, then to her commander again) that she's yet to wash her hands. Her right fingers are practically coated in the stuff. She scowls and rubs it against the leg of her trousers, succeeding in little more than staining that as well. Funny, how she's been alright with it till now. Till he mentions that they're meeting her superior.

Jim chuckles to himself, strolls blithely ahead of her towards the waiting lights of the medical center and their intrepid Commander. "Go on, Wash, make yourself up all pretty for him."

She manages to catch his jacket, transferring some of the flaky blood to him and he has to lunge rather awkwardly to the side to avoid being hit.

It doesn't mute his triumphant smile.

* * *

><p>To no one's surprise, Taylor checks himself out of the hospital early the next morning. He ignores the protests of the nurse (and Doc Shannon's less than amused expression) and makes for the Command center. Jim and Wash had stopped by the previous night, informing him of the situation. They'd caught Mira's would be assassin and had him effectively contained. He wasn't talking, but that was something easily changed over time.<p>

He trusts the both of them. Trust them with his life, with the colony, and most everything else. He trusts them to get to the bottom of this.

So when he descends the stairs to their little interrogation room, he expects to see them deep in conversation with their new man. He expects Shannon to have hoisted the man up by his shirt, yelling, or something. He expects Wash to move in; soothing (though it isn't in her nature to soothe…he mentally reverses their roles. Shannon soothing, Wash threatening.).

Through the glass, he's instantly aware nothing like that is happening. They're perfectly civil. The Sixer is leaned back in his chair, eyes focused with no small amount of intensity on one thing. Only one thing. Shannon's speaking but he isn't watching him. Taylor follows the line of his vision, tries to pinpoint his focus. It's awkward, but manageable despite the angle.

He isn't staring into space; he isn't focusing on some insane image only he can see. He's focused, solely, entirely, unflinchingly, on Wash. As if to test this, his lieutenant moves, shifts to Shannon's other side. The Sixer follows her. She moves to the right, he follows. To the left, he follows. She speaks, he listens. Shannon speaks, he ignores. She commands, he answers, voice closer to a purr than anything else. It's half talk and circular and doesn't get them anywhere, but he's willing to speak to her.

Which in itself is an advantage, isn't it? Why should he be concerned that someone finds his lieutenant attractive (because she is, that's simply a fact) if it gets them results? His rationality tells him she needs to remain in there, needs to be a part of this.

He shunts the information to the side.

Taylor's never been a jealous man. Not really. Jealousy denotes a lack of confidence, a lack of trust. It bespeaks insecurity in the individual harboring the insidious emotions rather than the behavior of the object of its affections. Taylor_ is_ confidence personified. When he makes decisions, he lives with them. He doesn't regret his actions, he doesn't second guess, and he _certainly_ doesn't get jealous like some love-sick teenager.

So he isn't entirely certain what it is that has him on edge about the situation but he's painfully aware that something's not right. There's nothing different about this. It's not even as if this is the most…_aggressive _patient Wash has ever had to deal with. By all rights he's being remarkably cordial. That he can't place what is it exactly that has him so on edge only adds insult to injury. There's simply something in the way his eyes trace her movements, slink down her figure, that rubs the commander the wrong way. Leaves him nearly pacing in the hall outside the chamber, leaves him fuming.

Leaves him…jealous.

He's not jealous.

Wash tilts her head lightly to the side, shifts from her left foot to her right one, loops a finger through her belt. She's standing next to Shannon, hip leaning against the desk they've moved down there at Jim's request. Occasionally, she'll drum a finger against the metallic surface, exchange a glance with her partner. There's absolutely nothing intentionally provocative in her stance. If anything, she's more conservative than half the women in the colony.

But the Sixers eyes never leave her, even when it's Shannon who's addressing him. Wash is smart, perceptive. She has to feel it. She has to have at least some idea what he's doing. What he's thinking. But she does nothing. Simply tolerates the wandering eyes.

Not. Jealous.

The Sixer responds to whatever question they've asked him. Wash quirks a brow, leans forward while resting a hand on the table. Absently, he's well aware that there's nothing behind the motion. It's one she uses often, particularly when demanding an explanation or expressing interest. It has absolutely nothing to do with attraction. It's simply her. It's simply his lieutenant, doing her job with proficiency only she can manage.

But when she does it, the Sixers eyes move unabashedly lower, ignoring her face in favor of this fascinating new angle of her chest. She makes no comment.

Screw it, he's jealous.

Taylor gives a sharp rap on the glass, causing the three of them to shift their attention. He motions for Wash to follow him, ignoring the confused, "Sir?" she mouths. She complies, offers Shannon a quick nod before leaving. It doesn't for a second escape him that the Sixer watches the sway of her hips as she moves.

Over the years he's behaved in ways he's not always proud of. He's lost his temper. He's issued commands based more on emotion than reason of tactical advantage. He's ashamed to admit even Wash has been on the receiving end of these of a few of them. There have been times in the past he's used rank to quell their arguments. Very rarely, but he's done it. But he has never, ever, over the course of their friendship (relationship) used his size against her.

The moment the doors closed he pulls he aside, looms over her. With her natural confidence he occasionally forgets how tremendously he dwarfs her. From the surprise on her face she's realizing this as well. She doesn't look scared simply…wary.

"Is something wrong?" she asks simply, bringing her free hand up to guide his away from her. She's uncharacteristically gentle, fingers wrapping around his wrist to draw him away, almost as if she's worried about reopening his to fresh wound. He tightens his grip warningly around her bicep.

"You're off this, lieutenant." He replies, just as curtly. He doesn't explain what "this" is, she knows. Whatever he's implying, and he even _he _isn't entirely certain what that is, sinks in. Her expression shifts instantly from concerned to irritated to enraged.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing's wrong with your hearing, Wash. Get above ground."

She sputters, uncharacteristically at a loss, "What the hell for?"

He doesn't answer her (partially because he isn't entirely certain himself) simply give her a stony look. She glares but nods. It's one of the advantages of being the Commanding officer. Sometimes he doesn't have to explain his orders.

But she sure as hell has to obey them.

Shannon looks surprised (and perhaps a little disappointed) when he enters the room but refrains from commenting. The cop rises, asks to see him outside.

"With all due respect, sir," funny, how both he and Wash tend to preface their criticism with that. As if it offers them some immunity. The other man's face is serious, "You shouldn't be here. The Sixer's have a very distinct view of you and your…" he hesitates, continues only at the threatening arch of his superiors brow, "Tactics, will only reinforce those beliefs."

He isn't jealous. He isn't a jealous man. But he thinks back of the Sixers eyes as they trail across Wash's body and can't suppress the sharp pang of something decidedly less than platonic. His smile must be less than friendly because Shannon takes a defensive step back.

Taylor clasps a hand on his friends shoulder, that same toothy smile on his face, "Every rumor's based in some truth, right Shannon?" The other man nods slowly, eyes narrowing, "Well, let's go give the bastard some truth."

He isn't jealous.

* * *

><p>Mark Reynolds eats dirt for what can only be the fifth time that day. He spits a healthy portion of moss and dust, turns to glare at the woman looming over him. Wash is pissed. Really well and truly pissed; despite his current status as her punching bag he doesn't for a moment complain. He also never even considers that her anger is directed at him. He knows her better than that.<p>

She offers him a hand up, eyes still burning. Even as he's brushing dirt off the back of his fatigues, his superior is dropping back into her combat stance, ready to go another round. Some of the privates around their makeshift ring throw him pitying looks. No one, not even Taylor, is eager to engage Wash when she's like this. She wears her emotions far more openly in combat and he won't deny that it's frightening.

Despite the pain it causes, he can't help but chuckle, shakes his head.

"Permission to speak freely, ma'am?"

"Granted," she practically growls as she closes the distance between them, ducks under his swing.

He grins at her, even as her elbow collides with his gut, forcefully expulses the air from his maltreated lungs. She treads squarely on his toe, back flush to his front. Mark leans over her shoulder a bit, speaking low enough so only she can hear him, "You're goddamn terrifying, you know that?" _And I don't envy the Commander_ hangs between them.

She flashes him a wicked smirk, her foot connecting with his shin with more force than sparring really requires. He doesn't for a second believe it's aimed at him. She's fighting an apparition, an idea, more than anything else. She doesn't fight him like this.

She does fight _him_ like this. And he doesn't for a second envy the Commander. Because _this, _this hurts like hell.

Mark Reynolds eats dirt for the _sixth_ time that day.

* * *

><p>A week passes and Alicia finds time offers no balm to her irritation. Taylor doesn't come to offer her an apology and she doesn't ask for one.<p>

Perhaps the only consolation she's offered is that he's been miserably unsuccessful with their prisoner. Evidently his bad cop routine isn't panning out. For whatever reason, their Sixer friend has been silent. Her information comes to her mostly through gossip but it brings her a sick sort of amusement whenever the subject strays to their intrepid leader's failure.

It pleases her even more when she hears he's given full control of the case to Shannon. The colony has more important things to worry about than one loon in the basement. It's the official reason given but hardly the truthful one. The fact of the matter is he's failed.

She smirks.

Boylan's bar is, as per usual, teaming with patrons, all crowded around the bar shouting for their drinks. It lends itself well to the general cacophony, the cries meshing seamlessly with the laughter, both battling for dominance with the music. A live band is playing, as good an excuse as any to frequent the establishment.

For her part, Wash isn't overly fond of crowds or the noise. She'll share a quiet drink with friends any day over…whatever the hell this is. If Shannon hadn't called her she never would have come.

The man in question is already waiting for her, having reserved a booth near the back of the establishment. He flashes a warm smile, holds up his drink in salute. Another drink (a scotch, her favorite, bless him) is slid towards her the moment she settles herself down.

She offers him a friendly nod, "Shannon."

"Wash," he replies, scooting his beverage between his hands idly, "Almost didn't recognize you with your hair down." It's a lie. For the most part, she wears her hair up only on duty. It's a visible sign for those that know her well that she's Wash the woman or friend instead of Wash the soldier. "Got a favor to ask."

They both know what it is. Instead, she opts for a teasing, "Good to see you too."

He smiles apologetically, "Sorry, been a long day."

"Taylor working you to hard?"

He holds a hand to his heart, feigning hurt, "Always. You know my delicate constitution." He runs a finger idly around the rim of his glass, focuses on his son behind the bar. Purses his lips before flicking his attention back to her, "I take it you've heard all about our little friend?"

"How he's been kicking your collective asses? Yeah, I heard."

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead and gloat," but he hardly looks offended.

She doesn't, simply sighs and shakes her head, makes a motion that he continue, "So you want me to what?"

"Erm…" Shannon smiles at her, glancing down, "See, that's where it get's awkward. Technically speaking if he was going to crack due to…the usual methods, he already would have." Jim is very rarely uncomfortable but it's fairly obvious what he asking is not something he's terribly at peace with. "Taylor made the wrong call when he took you off this. I hate to say it but our man….likes you. _Really_ likes you. I'd like to…."he winces, "Use that."

"You better not be implying what I think you are, Shannon."

"That you're a beautiful, talented woman eager to help out a friend?"

"Very smooth; does that ever work?"

"On less frigid women it's been known to."

She doesn't bother to hide her smile, shrugging, "You want me to seduce him?" It sounds ridiculous. Absolutely, completely, ridiculous. She's the lieutenant of the colony; she's severe and no-nonsense. And here's Shannon, shifting uncomfortably under her gaze as if he's just condemned them both to a fate he's entirely ill at ease with.

She wonders if he'd still put her in this position if he knew what'd happened between her and Taylor. She wonders how he's even come to the conclusion that she's the woman for the job. There are prettier women in the colony; ones far more suited to this sort of…behavior.

But she can't deny that she's felt the Sixers eyes on her. And she won't deny that she'd considered using it to her advantage before Taylor had…removed her.

Jim is back to his customary good humor, pursing his lips slightly, "It sounds so ugly when you say it like that."

"How do you want me to say it?"

He shrugs blithely, "No idea. Sounds bad no matter how you phrase it."

There's a moment of silence between them, entirely at odds with the chaos of the bar. Someone lets out a loud yell, there's a crash as if someone's fallen off of something (a table, a chair, whatever other surface one could reasonably stand on). She leans closer to him, speaks lowly, "Does Taylor know?"

"You're kidding right?" Shannon states at her as if she's lost her mind, "Wash, if Taylor even thought I was considering this he'd have me strung up outside the gate. He's…_protective_."

"That's one word for it," she sighed. _Protective_, not jealous, not irritating, not whatever other synonym she mentally applies to him when he's being particularly frustrating. It's not the first time he's ever been like this towards her, but it's the first time he's even behaved in such a way so openly. And if she's being entirely truthful, she wants to break their little traitor. She wants to do what Taylor could not, just to prove him wrong. She flashes Jim a smirk, takes a sip of her scotch, "Alright."

"Listen, Wash, I know it's not a good place for me to put you but it's for the good of…wait, what? You're agreeing to this? You? Lieutenant Washington?"

"Like you said, for the good of the colony."

He doesn't buy that. Not for one second. The moment the words leave her mouth he's smirking, leaning back in his chair amusedly. "Helps that it'll piss off Taylor…"

She smiles, ignores the jibe, "You have a plan?"

"Always do."

* * *

><p>AN: Alright so there wasn't as much Jim and Wash as I wanted but I'm still remarkably pleased with this. DEAR LORD. I wrote something I'm proud of? FOR SHAME. xD And now we've got our setup. It's time for Wash to get her Stockholm on, baby. TIME FOR PLOT PROGRESS!


	3. Chapter 3: Cheatin' Hearts

A/N: So um…I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. So once we're finished with this authors note…I'm going to go hide and you can read it. I thought it'd be interesting to run Wash's first visits with the Sixer in tandem with Taylor's little stint with him, hence the frequent…perspective swapping fun times. Italicized sections indicate Taylor's part. And erm…you get some gratuitous background information. Because obviously that's what you're here for. xD

The Sixer owes his last name to the ever lovely Inu, who also told me to make him creepier. You'll have to tell me if I succeeded because I'm honestly not sure. So…that's it. Read on, I'm going to go hide.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter: Cheating Heart<strong>

* * *

><p>When they first make their move Taylor is OTG. It seems rather cowardly but neither of them is particularly keen on risking his ire without first having at least some measure of progress to justify their insubordinate behavior. If the guards posted outside Command notice (which they assuredly do) they make no comment. What's the harm, really, in obliging them?<p>

Their plan (Jim's plan, really) is remarkably simple.

Wash will enter posed as a medic. Treat his wounds, build on the already present trust, use it to extract any relevant information. She is allowed, he explains all too blithely, to develop her character as she goes along. It brings an altogether unwillingly smile to her face. Her _character_. She'll be lying through her teeth for the next few days, both to the Sixer and Taylor. The notion causes her spirits to fall immeasurably. When push comes to shove, she hates lying to him, hiding things from him. But he's being a stubborn ass and his life could be at risk. She's willing to lie for that.

It isn't as if he hasn't done that same for her a thousand times.

They come to a stop outside the interrogation room, peer through the glass at the man on the other side. It's enough to cause her pause. "You boys really did a number on him," she mutters, head titled to the side. Even from such a distance it's obvious their captive isn't doing well. His skin is coated with the thick sheen of sweat, his hair matted. He's undoubtedly running a fever, perhaps something else as well, skin dotted with mottled bruises. Broken blood vessels snake under his eyes in ugly shades of purple and black to join near the bridge of his nose. It's been reset but there's no doubt in her mind that it has only recently been broken. Jim shifts beside her when she flicks her gaze to him, "Taylor?"

She receives the oddest quirk of a smile, as if she should know better or simply know. Of course it's Taylor. He's _protective_. Of what exactly she doesn't pretend to know. His temperament shifts frequently, entirely to akin to the sandy dunes not far from the colony and every bit as dangerous.

"Yeah; that's it. It was Taylor. I was _not _involved," he doesn't bother to hide the grim smile that turns his lips, "Obviously."

In return, she simply nods, "Do I want to know what he said to merit it?"

"I wouldn't tell you if you asked."

She makes a low humming sound. Jim Shannon, unwilling to disclose the details of a conversation, did wonders ever cease? Wash tightens her hold on the first aid kit, glances back up the stairs (as if Taylor will suddenly descend on them; Jesus, she's getting paranoid) before setting her shoulders. "Wish me luck, Shannon."

"You won't need it, Wash," and for a second she believes him. The door slides open, a waft of too warm air striking her. It carries with it the telltale stench of sickness, slow decay and iron. There's only the sound of breathing, shallow and strained, and her boots against the metal grates. Runs a hand over her face as the door closes behind her. She thinks she hears Shannon before it seals.

Wishing her luck, of all things.

* * *

><p><em>Taylor runs a hand tiredly over his face. Walks through the very door Wash will a few days later. He's been, if he's being entirely truthful, remarkably lenient with the Sixer these past six days. He hasn't offered much (anything) in the way of information but he's no longer openly antagonistic. He's placid, collected and, on most days, notably lucid, his green eyes narrowed as they go through the questions that have become almost routine. What can they do to him, really? Kill him? Turn him loose in the jungle? Torture him? <em>

_Their fourth day begins much the same as any other; Shannon asks him his name, he replies with whatever half-hearted pseudonym he created the night before. The lie is always accompanied by a too wide smile, the sort that promises much but can ultimately deliver (and intends to deliver) little. Sometimes he'll regale them with stories from the Sixer camp (always with just enough truth to function, never enough to hinder), sometimes he'll simply sit in silence, tap his fingers idly against the back of his chair. _

_Today is one of the former it seems. He's halfway through describing how a friend became separated from his intestines in the midst of a Slasher attack before Shannon's comm. unit goes off. It takes a glance thrown Taylor's way before he's excusing himself. He returns a moment later. _

"_Just Wash. Outpost checks out, they're heading back." _

_Taylor feels an irrational spike of something course through him at the intrigued tilt of their captives head. It shouldn't bother him, but the green eyes seem to burn a bit brighter, become a bit glassier at even the mention of her name. He sits up straighter in his chair, wrings his hands as best he's able, "Our lieutenant is safe?"_

_Shannon retakes his seat, tone curt, "Yeah. The lieutenant's safe." _

"_Will she be visiting us? I've missed her."_

"_Not on your life," the commander speaks before Shannon is able, his tone remarkably light. Funny, how effectively he can lie when he feels like it. Funny, how the cheery nature of his tone so readily contrasts with the warning light in his eyes._

* * *

><p>To her surprise, the Sixer does not snap to attention at her arrival. He doesn't even acknowledge her presence. From the labored breathing, taken in ragged wheezing hisses, it's safe to assume he's unconscious. Perhaps sleeping, though it's hard to tell with him in such a state; she sets her kit on the desk, turns her back towards him as she sets out her supplies. Antiseptic, bandages, he has a shallow cut above his left brow that could use a few stitches. Her fingers brush the latex gloves but leave them where they sit.<p>

There's something undeniably powerful in skin to skin contact. She isn't willing to forgo that advantage simply to keep her hands clean.

He doesn't shift under her ministrations as she cleans away the blood, dabs at some of the nastier bruises. He doesn't move as she stitches his brow. It isn't until she moves a hand to his jaw (goddamn, Taylor had worked him over; it's a wonder his teeth are still intact) that he manages a groan. Eyes groggily flutter open, take her in with a quizzical interest and then close again. She instantly regrets waking him. Though he refrains from looking at her he makes a concerted effort to follow her hand, head lolling to the side to keep in contact with it. She frowns, holds him steady.

He whispering something about her being an angel, a dark one, a contradiction in human form, but an angel none the less.

"You have a fever," is all she offers, tone detached. It's enough; he nods weakly into her hand, makes a pathetic little whimpering sound. His eyes are dilated, glassy, staring sightlessly in her direction when they finally manage their way open.

For the duration of their session, his gaze never leaves his angel.

* * *

><p><em>Their sixth day, they arrive to find the prisoner deep in thought. He doesn't bother to offer them a name, grunts a greeting. He purses his lips and wrings his hand and looks the very picture of bemusement, his skin looking unnatural in the unflattering light of the room. They are perhaps an hour or so into their session when he finally speaks, he takes an exaggeratedly deep breath. <em>

_"You aren't a very kind man, Commander." _

_Taylor scoffs, "Oh? Don't tell me my shoulder got in the way of your bullet." _

_"Mmm, I apologize for that. Wasn't very good of me, was it?" _

_"Can't say it improved my disposition any." At the other mans continued silence, he speaks first, "You going to start talking? I'd think you'd be tired of these walls by now." _

_"But I can't talk; I can't even **focus**. It's **awful**. How can you expect me to talk when you're so cruel?"_

_Oh god, this again. The ranting and raving and half mad delusions. It's always a new reason he's cruel, fabricated from the mesh of many different Sixer tales, wound together to form a suitably unflattering amalgamation. _

_But he doesn't hurl insults and yell. Simply gets the most absurdly content, dreamy look on his face. Simply says… _

_"She's very pretty," there's something in the way his tone caresses the last word that stains the entirety of the sentence, robs it of any pure affection. No one bothers to ask who she is. It's fairly obvious. As far as this chambers concerned there is only one she, proud and steeled and still royally pissed at her Commanding officer. The other man purses his lips, nods to whatever thought has scurried across his consciousness and continues blithely on, "Dark hair framing a dark face with dark eyes. Dark, dark, dark, dark, you'd think it'd be drab, huh? But not on **Alicia**, no, she's just peachy." Rambles on and on about nothing in particular, praises and praises, lauds her very name. Another five minutes, perhaps ten, and he shows no sign of stopping. Evidently they've found a topic he's entirely too willing to wax philosophical on._

* * *

><p>She still attempting to patch him together when he speaks again.<p>

"You're very pretty," he finally offers, his voice hoarse and raspy. The effort causes him to cough further aggravating his throat. He doesn't expect her to comment and doesn't offer anything else. Simply that one phrase, altogether innocent if taken by itself. But she still feels his eyes, and the words itch and burrow at her skin, trying to tunnel beneath. When her head snaps up, she favors him with a smile, almost sickeningly sweet in its intensity and entirely out of place with her features.

Anyone who knew her better, knew her at all even, would have called her bluff.

But her reaction seems to pacify him, he smiles right back, closes his eyes. Occasionally, he'll shift under her hands in attempt to move closer to her but for the most part he's willing to play by her standards. He waits till she orders him to crane his neck, doesn't protest as the alcohol of the wipe sends stinging pain through the tender flesh.

The Sixer watches her very carefully as she checks his stitches a final time before going to settle herself at Shannon's desk. Watches as she shifts the papers in front of her (and tries to make head or tails of Shannon's writing) and attempts to make herself comfortable. Once she is she favors him a warm smile, tamps down on the irritation it brings with it.

He still looks like hell but she's done the best she can. And with the drugs flooding his system he's hardly in pain, chirping blithely to himself. "How did you…" She indicates his gash, touches a hand to forehead, finds it's still sticky with blood and fights the urge to scowl, "Get like this?"

He smiles so widely she doesn't wonder if it hurts his abused face, ""Oh, this and that. I wasn't a very good house guest, you see."

* * *

><p><em>Jim <em>_throws __him __a __concerned __look , __noting __the __absent __clenching __and __unclenching __of __the __Commanders __hands. __The __blood __has __drained __out __of __them __almost __entirely ,__together ,__apart ,__together, __leaving __them __an __ash __white __from __the __force. __He __watches __him __to __ignore __the __feeling __of __irritation __pooling __in __his __own __gut. __If __Wash __were __here __she __wouldn__'__t __stand __for __this. __She__'__d __have __walked __up __and __slugged __the __guy._

_But she isn't here. And this is the first time he's been willing to talk with them in days. _

_So for the moment, both men remain silent, silently beginning to fume as the conversation takes its turn. _

_"Just peachy," he flicks his attention blithely to Terra Nova's leader, "I wonder…does she taste like a peach, Commander? Sugary and winsome and full of life?" He smiles to himself, shifts in his chair, "She's so severe. I can't see her like that always." It's almost fascinating, how quickly his tone shifts, dipping and weaving between a higher octave and a throaty purr, as if the words are rasping against the flesh of his throat. "No, not always at all. She's something to know, isn't she? Must be. Leaving dark bruises on dark skin, quite an image." _

_He leans cheerfully forward, doesn't bother to stop to breathe as the words leave him in a half-mad (perhaps entirely mad) torrent, "Do you like it, Commander? I would like it. Ooh, leaving fingers, leaving marks, such ownership. Should you like to own her? I think I should like it. Fingers over her skin, over her breasts, she has lovely, lovely, lovely breasts, wouldn't you say, of course you say. We both do. We all do. And what can she do? All pretty and severe and goddamn peachy, with her dark hair in your hands and darker eyes all wide and desperate, begging; does she beg, Commander? I like to think she does." _

_No response, so he pushes, purrs to himself more than anyone else._

_"Does she writhe and moan beneath you, beg, beg, beg because after having a stick shoved up her ass all day you're the second best alternative?" To his credit, Taylor appears remarkably indifferent, brings a hand up to his jaw. He doesn't move, doesn't say anything, his breathing remains regular. It's only in the slight flare of his nostrils that one can tell he's even affected. So the Sixer pushes. _

_He seems to turn in on himself momentarily, features clouding. He stares wistfully towards the door, towards the world outside, towards Wash. He makes a keening noise, half giggle, half moan. "Just peachy, so alive, so **frustrated**. Doesn't that frustrate you? It frustrates **me**." _

_Jim moves back, stands from his position behind the desk, begins sorting the papers in front of him. It's enough to give the man pause; he cocks his head lightly to the side as if this intrigues him. It stills his rant momentarily at least, and Shannon thanks god for small mercies. "I think we're done here for today." Because he's a patient man, but much more of this and he's going to feel like introducing the man's face to the steel grates beneath their feet. _

_It is, surprisingly, Taylor who opposes him. The older man holds up a warning hand, "We aren't done till I say so, Shannon," his tone dangerously close to a growl, gaze never leaving their nameless prisoner. His blue eyes are alight with a fire that nearly robs the iris of its color. It's cold, impossibly so, and belies the irritation simmering in his blood. _

_"Look, I know you're frustrated but we aren't getting anything out of the bastard. It's not worth it." _

_"He's talking, Shannon, that's an improvement." _

_"I'm not sure I agree with your definition of that term, sir." _

_But it isn't his call to make._

* * *

><p>It's an hour into their session and she's positive Jim is getting twitchy in the hall outside. Taylor could return at any time and they have nothing to offer him in trade. She adjusts the pad in front of her, leans forward on her elbows, allows her hair (she's worn it loose for this very reason. She isn't entirely certain what it is about men and wild hair but they seem to favor it) to fall over her shoulder, the ends of it tickling against her chest.<p>

Her voice is terribly cheerful, entirely at odds with her casual stoicism, "You have an unfair advantage."

"Oooh, do tell?"

He leans forward in an attempt to mimic her posture. She averts her eyes a bit, staring at the spot above him more than at him. This frustrates the Sixer. He stares at her petulantly until she continues.

"I don't know anything about you, do I? I'd know your name but…" she lets out a huff and a sigh and it's almost amusing how readily his features shift to better suit hers. She's displeased (or looks it) and so he's instantly placating and concerned, cooing lightly, "You just wouldn't give it to Shannon. A shame, really. How can I get to know you if I don't even know what to call you?" And perhaps she draws the end of the sentence out a bit, lingers on the words.

He pauses, considers this. Opens his mouth to speak a lie and finds he cannot. Because her expression is one of displeasure and he cannot abide it. She is displeased, displeased, displeased and it's with him, him, him.

"Cillian," he mutters finally, "Cillian Wolfe."

"Alicia Washington."

"Yes. Alicia Washington, just peachy."

She arches a brow but doesn't comment.

* * *

><p><em>Taylor takes long strides towards the captive, circles him. It instantly changes the expression on the man's face from smug to wary, desperately craning his neck to keep the soldier with his line of site. The Commanders voice is deceptively smooth when he speaks, a sign far more dangerous than his pacing or his growling. There's always this moment of calm when he's well are truly angry. "Seems like you have something of a crush on my lieutenant, is that right?" <em>

_"Oooh, **your **lieutenant is she? How old fashioned of you; how positively **covetous.**" Taylor arches a brow at the term. Wonders if the man is even aware of the absurdity of his statements; it's impossible, where Wash is concerned, to do anything but covet. She belongs to herself and herself alone and to house any feelings for her, any feeling of ownership, is to lust after something unattainable. She guards her feelings more strictly than she guards Terra Nova and he knows from their years together that more than a few men have coveted her heart. But none have ever come close to earning it._

_But he's Nathaniel Taylor. He isn't jealous. And he most certainly does not covet his subordinate. "Lieutenant Washington is a soldier serving under my command, as we are well aware. Much as you serve Mira." _

_"Mmm, but there's serving and _serving_ and I have served but one function while I reckon _your_ lieutenant's served both in her time. What else is there to do in this backwater hole if not your commanding officer?" That one, he'll admit, does cause him to bristle. He can feel Shannon moving behind him, shifting behind the desk, leaning heavily on its surface, hears him let out a hiss of breath, however muted. _

_It's slander, plain and simple. Its lies, plain and simple. And where he would simply laugh if the little bastard tried to imply such things about his own career it infuriates him to hear such things about Wash. Alicia Washington, who's walked the straight and narrow as long as it's available to her (and occasionally when it's not); Alicia Washington who's slaved second only to himself to ensure the safety of their new world. _

_To say it pisses him off is the most egregious of understatements. _

_It's not any of the bastard's words about their relationship that ends up snapping his control. He couldn't care less about them, they are lies, delusional and, however insulting, will in no way affect his view of Wash. When he implies, however, that's she done anything less than work her ass off for the sake of Terra Nova, that she hasn't thrown herself in the fire for his sake time and time again, his hold frays. When he implies that somehow she's only where she is because she's been lucky enough to screw her way to the top and her not own merit…_

_Something wicked flashes behind those green eyes, something entirely unfriendly; the Sixer pushes again, on terrain much less safe, glibly unaware of the precarious ledge he's perched on. He chuckles to himself, almost as if nothing's changed, almost as if he's taken solace in the vice like control of Terra Nova's leader. Whispers as if he's simply spreading a choice piece of gossip to a dear friend, and not a venomous turn of phrase. _

_Because what can they do to him? What can Taylor, with his vaunted control, with his honor, do? _

_So he hisses and purrs, low and in the back of his throat, "And it's certainly the easiest way to secure a cushy position in your little kingdom, right Taylor? Why spend all that time working when you can just lay back for a few minutes, think of 2149, or whatever the hell she comforts herself with."_

_Call him old fashioned, but Taylor's a gentleman. More than that, he's her friend. The notion of permitting such slander regarding any of his friends is abhorrent. That he could stand idly by while such things were said about Wash... _

_Jealously be damned, he's willing to relinquish his control a bit for Wash. She's done it more times for him than he cares to count. _

_After six days listening to this guy he deserves it._

* * *

><p>It's her third session with Cillian and she knows for a <em>fact<em> that Jim has transcended pacing. Whenever she leaves the room he favors her with a smile, but it's not the one she's grown accustomed to. It's edgy and uncertain; he's constantly running a hand down the back of his neck, glances towards the stairs.

Because they've made it three days without Taylor noticing and that's pushing their luck. Neither of them expected to have that much time. Neither of them deludes themselves into thinking they have much more.

"Really need you to get that charm of yours moving, Wash," he teases. Only it's not really teasing, is it?

"You want to try your luck with him, Shannon?"

He snickers, gives her a pat on the shoulder, "No, no, he's not my type." She snorts at the comment.

It's her third session. She's got a name, a half garbled account of the events preceding the assassination attempt. It's her third session and she's gotten more information than Taylor managed in a week. It's her third session.

She doesn't delude herself into thinking she has many more.

As if on cue (and a part of her doesn't wonder if it's some form of divine intervention, fate having another laugh at her expense) a voice echoes down the stairs, reverberating off the walls. It's more a bellow than a simple shout, full of anger and something else. Not simply rage but rage coupled with betrayal, "SHANNON!" Jim's eyes widen impossibly at the sound. It's unfair really, how their names are so easily transformed into instruments of terror. There is no doubt regarding the master of said voice. At any other time the look the lieutenant and cop exchange might have been considered comical. At the moment, neither is capable of finding humor in their situation.

Jim gives her a shove towards the door, moving to stand between the stairs and the interrogation room. He flashes her a worried smile over his shoulder, tone still light despite his obvious concern, "Work fast, Wash."

Easier said than done.

* * *

><p><em>Jim isn't entirely certain how the older man closes the distance between himself and the Sixer so quickly. He's not sure he even see's the first punch. But he does see the second. And the third. And the fourth. <em>

_And he sure as hell doesn't move to stop it._

_The seventh day, Taylor turns to the case over to Shannon._

* * *

><p>Wash never stops her momentum, lunging almost clumsily (as near to clumsy as she can manage) into the room, a bit of dark hair whipping her face. The uncustomary fumble earns her a raised brow. Cillian throws her an amused look when she enters, makes an awkward half bow from his seat.<p>

"Lieutenant."

"Mr. Wolfe."

Funny, how through the supposedly sound proof walls of the bunker she can still make out the traces of the conversation going on in the hall. She not entirely certain whether this is a testament to the shoddy quality of their construction early on in the colony or her superior's ire. Every word, even if she cannot clearly discern them, carries the intonation of indisputable rage. Shannon, bless him, is arguing with no small amount of fervor himself. It's ultimately hopeless, as they are inarguably in the wrong, but it buys her more time.

She puts on her most flattering smile (and find every time she does it makes the muscles in her cheek twitch, the overly wide quality and its absolute falsity rubbing uncomfortably against her moral center), drums her fingers against the desk before settling for standing in front of it. They've moved the Sixer so that he sits fetched up against the far side and when she settles on its surface it leaves her feet in his lap. He watches them with a strange sort of fascination, eyes never straying up towards her calves or thighs. Just her booted feet, fetched against the outside of his knee.

Wash has never fancied herself a flirtatious sort of woman (she isn't). She's a woman of action, of war, of straight tactics and planning. There's very little use in playing coy or hard to get. It's a waste of time, a waste of words, a pretty lie. So she simply asks him, blunt, because she has little patience for games and no time to waste. She can hear Taylor more clearly now, indicating he's made progress with Shannon.

"Do you like me Cillian?" She almost gags on the words, so innocuously innocent and hatefully coy. She has no place for either. She hasn't been either for more years than she cares to count. The phrase leaves her in a rush, as if she's eager to distance herself from it. To the man, it seems she's desperately confessing feelings before she loses whatever bit of her nerve remains.

To her, it's a last ditch effort to secure a bit of information before her Commanding Officer hauls her bodily out of the room. Something crashes against the door behind them and she fights not to turn and look.

He stares at her, puzzled, "Hmm?"

She leans forward, and if her foot trails up his leg a little higher she won't admit it, "You heard me."

"It's a silly question, silly girl. Of course Cillian likes you."

"Mmm, and do you like seeing me, Cillian?"

"_Yes_."

She can hear the voices so terribly clearly. Moves closer, knees fetching against his. She imagines blue eyes to replace his green ones, the scent of leather and earth and something indefinable to replace his smell of sweat and iron. Grey hair instead of matted brown. It helps a bit as she trails a hand lazily across his (woefully clean shaven) jaw line. She tries not to focus on the ramifications of her little flight of fantasy (or who she's chosen to model it after), brings herself back to the present. "Do you want to keep seeing me?"

"Yessss." He wants to touch her, so she lets him, ignores the furious and altogether crawling sensation of her skin, leans near enough to brush her nose against his cheek. It's almost easy, when she closes her eyes, to map another's features across his and she ignores the reason why. He makes an aggravated little squeak when she moves away before he can kiss her (because no matter how she can alter his looks she can't alter _that_).

"Taylor doesn't want you to see me."

"Taylor is cruel, cruel, cruel." Goddamn singsong quality, she wonders that Taylor didn't break his nose earlier.

"Yes he is. But he wants something you have, and if you give me that information, then he can't stop you from seeing me, can he? Because you have the thing he wants." He freezes, pinning her with a cautious look as her fingers brush through his hair. She leans into him again, muttering wordlessly against his ear and this seems to placate him.

"Lieutenant Washington!" She doesn't have to turn to know the voice. Or the fact that his eyes are boring holes in the back of her head, blue eyes burning with something she doesn't care to put a name to.

Cillian coos at her supposed grimace (though inwardly she releases a sigh of relief). In all honesty, his interruption could not have been more ideally timed if they'd planned it. She does her best to look disappointed, mournful, slides away from him. Keeps her posture ramrod straight (because even he will notice if she looks ashamed) as she marches away. The Sixer stares after her miserably, feels her absence acutely as she moves, puts distance between them, trading him for the furious man in the doorway.

"Wait, wait, wait."

She pauses, allow Taylor to see the triumphant smirk pulling her features. Even the momentary lapse irritates her CO. Wash silently asks him to trust her. His eyes remain glacially cool. What right does she have asking him to trust her when she's so blatantly defied him?

But Cillian is still speaking behind them, pulls them away from their wordless debate, "A trade, Commander. I'll tell you things…you're curious, yes? All the ways into your colony from the outside and more," he pauses, quirks his head, "Oh, there are lots of ways. Mira knows them, you should know them too. But…"

"I'll tell Alicia, Commander," And he sounds not so very different from a petulant child, "Only Alicia."

"We aren't discussing this."

The scowl she favors him with is enough to set lesser men cringing. She turns halfway to address their captive, smiles is a manner she hopes is reassuring, "Will you excuse me?"

He nods jauntily, "Of every sin."

Between the Commander and herself she isn't sure which of them is the more furious. She does know, however, that for all intents and purposes she is hauled out of the room.

* * *

><p>Sky: *ducks* SORRY. I hope that wasn't awful and I promise that's the last serious bit of perspective switching. And for being such good sports, I'll give you a BAMF flavored treat next chapter.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4: Flustered

SA/N: Fine, fine, I'll stop getting distracted by mistletoe and murdering Wash to write the next chapter of my _actual _story. I do believe I promised all you lovely individuals a Bamf flavored treat? Let's see how you like it.

Had the WORST writers block for this chapter so I have to take a minute and say: thank you, Inu. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Our crazy antics are the only reason this chapter's been finished. Also…BAM. Suck it chapter, I finished you. xD

*cough* Sorry about that, I'm done.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter: Flustered<strong>

* * *

><p>Alicia Washington is fairly certain she's never been as put out at her Commander as she is now.<p>

His fingers dig rather painfully into her upper arm, dragging rather than goading her forward. It's a striking illustration of just how furious he truly is with her. In all their years together she can count the number of times he's behaved in such a manner on one hand. Even then she isn't using all fingers.

Once, early on in her tenure, when she'd still been young enough to fancy herself immune to death, to fancy her friends immune to its clutches so long as she was there to save them. It'd been a sergeant, his body horribly mangled, riddled with bullets. And she'd still been young enough, _naïve_ enough, to fancy she might save him. He'd been dead before her field kit was open. She'd been stupid enough to stick around. It had taken Taylor, his grip strong on her arm, dragging her away to separate them and even then it had been a struggle.

A second time, in Somalia, when panic had overcome reason. The side of her that prided itself of its rationality had failed her as shrapnel rained around them. It was silly, really, considering the disparity in their size but she'd seen the debris coming towards them, towards _him_, and she'd acted. Shoved him aside, moved her body between him and the metal. It had impacted her shoulder with impossible force, broke three ribs, but she'd got him out of the way. That was all that mattered to her, enough to numb the agony tearing through her abused body. Taylor had stared at her before gathering her wordlessly in his arms. There'd been fear in his voice, drowned under his irritation, and he'd sworn at her for her (supposed) stupidity. Sworn because no matter how terribly he tried to drive it through her skull that she'd behaved like a silly fool, he couldn't manage to wipe the satisfied smile off her face. Until today she'd never seen him so furious.

And now, a third time. A part of her doesn't wonder if his heart might give out, if his jaw is giving him pains with how tightly he has it clenched. When they are safely outside the door, when it slides shut behind them with a satisfying click, he gives her a not so delicate shove forward. In that moment he looks less like the friend she's been through hell with and more like the man she have remembers from her past, his eyes heavily veiled, barely betraying his thoughts. It's jarring, having him close himself off from her after so long, and she finds the sensation is one she'd rather not relive. She remains rooted to her spot, rests fisted hands on her hips, clearly prepares herself for battle. Intentionally or not it leaves her standing beside Shannon. The other man is slumped against the wall, shaking his head, looking for all the world amused.

At the moment they aren't really concerning themselves over rank (and when have they ever, really?) or the military regulations that stands between them like a gaping chasm. As with so many of their disagreements it has little to do with their respective dedication to the cause and more to do with glaring personal flaws. She's betrayed him as a soldier, yes, but Taylor cannot judge solely on that. Too many moments shared between them, too much life, history, blurs the lines between personal and professional. More than disregarding his orders, she's betrayed him as a confidant and friend. That, she knows, burns far more deeply. That, she knows, is responsible for the undeniable hurt buried beneath the irritation, the rage.

It's a feeling she's becoming intimately familiar with herself.

Wash meets his eyes, unyielding. It's mutual, this feeling, this frustration. Deep down they are both aware of its irrationality, how stupid it is to allow something so small to burrow beneath their skin after so many years. Ultimately, it's indulged because they are aware it will pass, as so many other of their spats have passed, indulged because they are both of them far more stubborn than any rational being has any right being and cannot justify backing down. It's a scenario they've played through enough times to know by ear, to play by rote.

She points to Jim, and in the grand scheme of things, the words she chooses to open their argument are nothing short of absurd, "You hit _Shannon_?" Not, _you betrayed my trust_, not, _after all these years you didn't believe in me,_ not a cadre of other phrases that are infinitely more suited. Just, you hit Shannon.

The man in question waves lazily up at them from the sitting position he's managed to wrestle himself into near the far wall, pausing in his previous task, dabbing at the blood dripping from his nose. He's nursing a split lip and what looks to be the start of a garish black eye, "Heya, Wash. Sorry about the, well…" he makes a vague gesture to everything around them, "All of this, really."

He receives glares from the pair of them and simply rolls his eyes, "But don't mind me. I'll just sit here, bleeding. You two have things to work out."

When she bends to assist him, the Commander holds up a warning hand. It's petty, it's childish, but he doesn't give a damn. Taylor doesn't bother look at all phased by the intensity of her glare, doesn't break contact, his tone glacially cool, something neither of them have been on the receiving end of since Jim accused him of murder so many months prior. "Get yourself checked out, Jim." Conversational, easy, and a not so subtle command rather than a request. Get the hell out of here; we've got things to say, leave us.

He's pissed but he isn't going to embarrass his second in front of her peer.

Jim's expression darkens a bit; he throws a concerned glance towards her. When he gets to his feet (and Taylor does allow her to assist him this time), he positions himself not so subtly between the woman and her commanding officer, his shoulder overlapping hers. As if she needs protection from him.

The absurdity of the thought is sobering.

The show of camaraderie does nothing to better his disposition; he grits his teeth, "You have your orders, Shannon. If I was going to kill the lieutenant I'd have done it already." The cop looks openly torn between following orders and what he presumes is loyalty to his friend. Wash gives a barely perceptible nod, the smallest twitch of a smile. It doesn't set him entirely at ease but it's enough to excuse him from the situation.

Jim looks like he'd very much like to squeeze her shoulder; he raises his hand only to let it drop, flashes them both a smile, "Guess I better get myself checked out then. Uh…" and his gaze fixes squarely on Taylor, "I'll be back to check on her progress after." _I'll be back to check on __**her**__ after, so don't try anything_, it says.

He'll never understand what precisely it is about Wash that inspires such loyalty in her men.

Silence reigns between them until they hear the comforting click of the door above, echoing down the stairs. The sound cuts the air as effectively as the anger rolling off the smaller woman. This is the second time he's drug out of the room over the same issue and he's had no justification either time. He's embarrassed her, shamed her, dug at her vaunted pride.

If there's one way to get under her armor it's that. He's twisted a knife in her side and he's well aware of it, revels in it. There's something oddly liberating about watching her omnipresent defenses flake away, chip and tear until she stands undone before him, all frustration and barely contained furry. It's like seeing her for the first time and while he doesn't approve of the methods it takes to drive her to such a point he does appreciate the results.

She set's her shoulders, squares her jaw. Fists clenching and unclenching as she waits for him to declare the issue open. To pick at what they've allowed to fester between them for the past week. He can't say he's eager to engage her but he certainly isn't balking at the prospect.

In the end, he obliges her, starts their row. He stands tall, rests his hands at the small of his back, entirely professional in a situation distinctly lacking anything resembling it, the picture perfect Commander, serene and aloof. Amusing, how striking a contrast it is to his heated thoughts, to the almost sick gratification he takes in her frustration, "Funny, Wash, I seem to remember taking you off this. Mind telling me why you're down here?"

"Shannon asked for my help, sir," she pauses here, bites her lips, torn between loyalty and honesty. But he's already well aware of the other mans involvement and so lying will do either of them little good. She straightens when he arches a brow in question, tone cold, "And as the most qualified member on staff after yourself, I agreed."

"You defied an order."

Her head snaps up, dark eyes blazing, "An order with no justification!"

"An order regardless, _lieutenant_."

She frowns, nods, because no matter how she feels she can't dispute that. She's openly defied chain of commander, "Yes, sir." And she does the unthinkable. Where anyone else would step back, step away from him, Wash steps forward, like a prized fighter ready to absorb a blow. Steps directly into the path of a force more than capable of destroying her. She's strong, an excellent fighter, but neither of them hold any illusions about her chances if it came to a real fight. He'd kill her. And perhaps, even through their anger, she realizes he'd never be able to take that step. So she pushes forward, stands toe to toe, head inclined to meet his eyes. "Permission to speak freely."

"Granted."

"You're a lot of things, Commander, but irrational isn't one of them," she levels an accusing finger towards the interrogation room and their waiting spy, "That man has information pertinent to the colonies safety and if I can…"

"If you can _what_, Wash? Because it looked like you were getting awful cozy with a traitor in there for nothing."

"_Cozy_? For god's sake, what are you saying? You think I _like_ doing this?"

No, he doesn't think that for a second. If he's being entirely honest, the thought never even crossed his mind. His voice is deceptively smooth when he speaks, a striking contrast to her own, "I think there are viable alternatives."

"Oh? Like what, sir? You want to take a few more swings at him?" Wash has an intriguing voice, he won't deny it. It's remarkably expressive, its tenors smooth and elegant. As opposed to many females it doesn't break or increase in pitch in tandem with her anger. Instead is deepens, low and in the back of her throat, renders everything close to a growl that anything else. Funny, he remembers her using a tone not so dissimilar during sex. She's growling, at him, pushing, voice laced with something he can't simply attribute to anger, "Hit him again? Because obviously that played out well for you."

"Watch yourself, Wash."

"Or what? You'll drag me out of here, again? Sir, it's my responsibility…"

His tone drops a bit, shows tearing in that carefully schooled calm, "It's your _responsibility_ to listen to your commanding officer…"

And she rises again to meet him, takes another step forward, "Not if he's being a stubborn ass, it isn't! The colony has to come before anything else, sir, and it's pretty damn obvious you've forgotten that."

"Lieutenant…" It's a warning. As clear as he can possibly give her. Only they are both well aware she won't abide by it. She'll keep pushing; keep prodding until he absolutely shuts her down. That's simply how things are between them. Push until you meet resistance, push until your opponent starts pushing back.

"Why did you take me off this is in the first place?"

"Wash…"

"I'll stop if you can give me a legitimate reason." Another step, another challenge, an impossible quirk in her brow that says she doesn't believe he can justify himself. She's positively beautiful like that, all defiance even when she's clearly in the wrong, dark eyes and dark hair.

The unfortunate phrasing only reminds of the goddamn Sixer. How he spoke of her, speaks of her, how his eyes following her every move. How Taylor's eyes follow her every move. How he covets…

And goddamn does he covet.

Another step and she loses all the ground she's gained.

In any other situation he might have found the abrupt widening of her eyes, the absolute shock there, amusing. At the moment, it's simply a visual reminder of how ungentlemanly he's behaving. He grabs her shoulders and shoves, catalogues her caution as her back makes contact with the wall (and tries to forget the last time they were like this, purges his memory of the images that too readily leap to the fore). His fingers tighten warning when she tries to move.

It leaves them nose to nose, breath mixing, "That isn't your choice, Alicia."

She winces at the use of her name. "Sir…"

"Whatever the hell your personal feelings are I expect you to abide by your orders. If I order you to do something you better damn well follow through. Of all people Wash I'd expect you to trust me." There it is, the hurt beneath the veil of propriety. What's worse, she sees it.

"I could say the same, sir," Something in her softens ever so slightly, she glances down (and it's the closest thing to a concession she'll offer), brings a hand up to rest over his, "Why did you take me off this?"

"You still pushing?"

She smiles, "You know me."

Unfortunately (or fortunately), he does. His grip slackens, but he does not step away (and she makes no move to put distance between them), sighs, "Gut reaction. Forgot how some men…_react _to you."

"That's one way to put it."

He shakes his head. At least he no longer has to worry she's unaware of the little bastards intentions. "What about you? Can't imagine Shannon's persuasive enough to have you flagrantly disobeying commands."

"Gut reaction," she quips, though it's not longer unfriendly, throws his words back at him, and it's almost telling how at ease she is despite his proximity, "He has information and if I can get it," she shrugs, "Some light petting for the good of the colony doesn't seem so bad."

"Wash…"

She inclines her head to the side, stares up at him.

For a moment, he considers kissing her. Because as fond as he is of her rage, he finds he appreciates her contrition just as much. Perhaps the only things that gives him pause is that she's speaking again, staring up at him with eyes that are only just beginning to warm, "You were protecting me." Not a question. A statement. And it sounds absolutely insane coming from her. Because she's Lieutenant Washington, and she hardly needs his protection. There's something in her tone that makes that absolutely clear. It also says she isn't nearly as affronted by the notion as she ought to be. "But the fact of the matter is that Terra Nova can run without me. It _can't_ run without _you_, sir. And if this is what it takes to protect you…then I'm damn well going to do it." And if he protests to that statement, she's going to fight him.

They've fought enough for one day, so he lets it drop.

He chuckles to himself, shakes his head as if he's indulging some absurd childish request, "You always were too quick to excuse me of blame, Wash." But it no longer sounds bitter. He isn't happy about this, not in the least, and the mirth he presumes to display never touches his eyes, but he's willing to accept it. Indulge her. Give her the benefit of the doubt.

Her tone is surprisingly soft, a far cry from what it was only moments earlier, "With all due respect, sir," and for once it does not preface a correction, simply a fact they have both come to terms with over the years, "I figure it evens out. You're always too eager to take it."

"How many days you think you need to clean this mess up?"

"Three, at the most, sir."

Taylor takes a deep breath (ignores that it brings their fronts in contact and the way she reflexively stiffens at the contact), nods, "Then get to it, lieutenant. I want that man out of my colony, sooner the better." It's the closest thing he'll offer to an apology for his behavior. A way to assure her she still has his trust.

"Yes, sir."

"And Wash?" She turns, tilts her head lightly to the side to indicate she's still listening, "Stop "sir-ing" me. Sounds awkward when you do it so often."

She smirks at him, considers snapping off a little salute. She settles on a jerky little nod (one she remembers used to irritate him back in the day, too eager, too young, he'd said, made her look childish), her dark hair falling lazily over her shoulders with the movement, "Yes, sir. Of course, sir." When he simply rolls his eyes, she lets of a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding.

He steps away from her, makes a sweeping gesture towards the chamber.

They're fine. Just fine.

* * *

><p>"You said there were ways into Terra Nova?"<p>

"Yes."

"And that you would show them to me."

"Your memory does not fail you, lieutenant, nor does your beauty," she pretends to preen under the compliment, repressing the more vital desire to grit her teeth at his clumsy attempt to shift the conversation. Perhaps the only thing that saves the situation from being wholly irritating is that she can feel Taylor's eyes on her, carefully cataloging her reactions. The man is simply waiting for an excuse, any excuse, to get her out of there. She'd be offended if a part of her didn't find it at least a little flattering or endearing.

"Cillian…"

He heaves a withering sigh, pouting, "Alicia cannot expect to receive something for nothing."

She hasn't had Taylor kick his ass again. _That _should count for something. Wisely, she chooses not to mention this sentiment. A part of her is entirely convinced she should not burn all her bridges of goodwill in one sitting. The lieutenant leans forward, rests her elbows on her knees, "You want to _barter _with me?"

"It's such an ugly term…"

She snickers, remembers that Jim had used much the same phrase to describe her seduction. Such an ugly phrase. As if they were ashamed, or regretted it, but cannot deny that it's the appropriate description, "Then describe what it is you want." It's hardly an open ended statement; her tone carries with it a note of warning. She's offering, but push too far and the offer is rescinded.

"May I have a moment to think?"

"Depends how long a moment is."

"Till tomorrow, Alicia."

"That's more than a moment."

"It's a series of moments, for a series of locations," he sways cheerfully in his seat, "And I promise to behave if you give me this. You can go, go, go and tell Taylor all sorts of things. Lots of things, and then he won't scowl so terribly, hmm? Pretty please, pretty thing?"

She scowls, taps a finger against her desk. Nods. "Alright."

Because what's one evening in the grand scheme of things?

It's fine. Just fine.

* * *

><p>When she returns the next day, she doesn't ask him what he's been thinking of, what's he's been pondering (and he has pondered a great many things, dreamed a great many dreams), simply seats herself at her desk, plucks her datapad from a drawer. Taylor's pretty queen is reading again (funny, how often she reads, though she isn't truly reading, is she? Her eyes skim the electronic document fleetingly before dancing off to rest near her wrist, thoughts and other incorporeal things drawing her attention away), leaning heavily on the desk. A bit of dark hair has escaped its binding, falls in a pretty wave across her forehead. Occasionally, she'll bat it aside, more recently she lets it remain. The pretty thing is tired and she's ceased caring if her severe styling lacks the immaculacy it once knew.<p>

Poor, poor, poor Alicia, how very…not sad, not frustrated, not _anything_; she simply sits there, a blank wall, emotionless and cold. She no longer speaks to him, no longer coos to him, no longer comes near enough for him to almost touch her. It's maddening, it's miserable, it's impossible.

It's _Taylor_.

The cruel man waits, Cilllian knows, on the other side of the door to intimidate the good lieutenant. He does not like that she speaks to him, is kind to him. He does not like it because he covets. Ooh, yes, does he covet. And the poor girl, poor beautiful Alicia, cannot defend herself.

So he watches her not-read her case files, watches her attention flick idly between conversations and thoughts he can neither see, nor hear, contents himself with her proximity. His angel, entirely too fascinating. She's contradiction given human form, a willingness to serve contrasting with crippling independence. She's freedom personified, her dark eyes burning with a near constant vigor, mingled with a sickening need to be needed. Push and pull, give and take, a desire to dominate and a need to submit.

Contradiction in human form, beautiful in its intensity, impossible in its composition; dark eyes in a dark face, framed with dark hair, pretty, pretty, pretty.

His angel's mouth quirks at the most intriguing angle when her thoughts take a certain turn. He can never quite divine its origin but it it's a pleasing thing and so he does not question it. It's the simplest of changes, the right side turning up ever so slightly, but it throws the entirety of her features into stark relief. She has wonderfully expressive lips, ever shifting, sometimes upturned, more frequently pursed, occasionally marred by frowns. She guards them less strictly then her eyes.

"A kiss," he says simply, before the idea can even truly manifest.

She glances up from her reading, quirks a brow. Cillian is staring at her in wonder, eyes wide as if unable to decide why he hadn't reached the conclusion the moment she offered.

"I'm sorry?" Ooh, but she isn't sorry, and she isn't confused, and he beams, chuckling blithely to himself at the very cleverness of his suggestion.

"A kiss for Terra Nova, lieutenant. Not so terrible a trade, hmm? Not so terrible a _barter_."

When she simply continues pursing those divine lips of hers, he scowls. "Alicia, Alicia, Alicia, you cannot expect something for nothing and this is nothing, nothing, nothing." He chuckles to himself, "You're so terribly unfair, pretty thing, so miserably vexing and cruel."

"Cruel like Taylor?"

Her supposed fear softens him, voice suddenly soothing, gentle, "No, pet, not like Taylor, not at all. But Cillian has little to gain and very much to give and so what harm can a little kiss do you?"

"I suppose that's true."

"Suppose because it is, pretty thing, and Cillian does not lie. A kiss for a location, and I choose both."

She can imagine Jim (and Taylor) squirming in the hall, itching to storm in and deny the deal. They're simply protective (silly, really, as she's saved their lives about as frequently as they have hers), simply worrying over her well being. It's halfway endearing, halfway infuriating and she finds herself torn between which of these emotions to favor. "Nothing wildly inappropriate?"

"Not until Alicia asks."

She cannot respond to that. The lieutenant pretends to read for the rest of their session.

* * *

><p>She kneeling behind him, wondering if she isn't out of her damned mind, "Do you like me, Cillian?" It's a conversation they've had many times, always with the same answer. Repetition of the question, repetition of the answer, a desire to remind him of the latter and further bind him to her.<p>

And, on topic as ever, the answer is unchanging, "So insecure, lieutenant; of _course_ I like you."

"Do you love me?"

He nods blithely, "I love to love my lovely love."

"Then if I untie you, you're going to behave yourself, right? No sudden moves, no coming towards me." She's out of her damn mind. No questions about it. But with his proposition flittering about in her head like some annoying insect she's more than willing to tolerate it. She can feel eyes on her (Taylor, more than anything else, and he's fuming again if she knows him well), feel doubt with her decision. In her decision. But no one intervenes. The room remains empty, save for the two of them. "Not until I ask."

"No, no, no, not until Alicia asks." It's the second time in as many days that he's offered her those words.

"I'm trusting you here, Cillian." Emphasize trust.

The suspicious look returns to his face, "Trust inspires trust, yes. You are a clever one."

She smiles, kneeling behind him. And while his fingers do reach up to brush across her palm he makes no attempt to restrain her, keeps to his deal. Once free he snaps his hands around to his front, hold them gleefully in front of him, shakes them out. He doesn't reach out to her as she passes (and she makes certain her hip brushes his arm on the way), just delights in the movement afforded him.

She settles herself on the desk; he settles his hands on his knees. They're surprising, long, slender fingers, much like Taylors. But where her Commanders have always struck her as remarkably graceful, elegant almost, these aren't half so charming. The tips are stained a dirty black from mixing sap in the jungle, and they stretch and retract, seemingly skittering with their motion, adopting a quality almost spiderlike.

Wash isn't skittish, not in the least, but she can't say she's overly fond of spiders, especially not ones crawling over her skin. Regardless, she reaches forward, takes one of his hands. He's fascinated by the contact, remains still until she nods at him. Even then he simply traces the line of her own fingers, coming to pause at the pulse in her wrist. It's there he stays, the thrumming of her head morbidly intriguing to him. He opens his mouth as if to comment but then simply shakes his head, brushing the thoughts away cobwebs.

It's as good a time as any, so she leans forward, uses her free head to incline his head towards her. The green eyes are cautious, openly questioning her movements. But she kisses him. A gentle (and she hates gentle) press of their lips. It's short, a fleeting touch.

The Sixer is outraged, jerks away from her, gives her shoulders a shove. It has her instantly on the defensive, reaching for the knife at the small of her back. But he makes no other move towards her, simply wipes his mouth in some childish show of disdain.

"No, no, no! Those are not the rules, not at all! I choose, not you."

"What's the difference?"

"Principle, pretty queen, principle."

He doesn't speak to her for half an hour.

* * *

><p>"Cillian?"<p>

He's pouting, and her instincts tell her to simply leave the room. But she's running short on time, and needs those locations. Needs them if she's going to protect Nathaniel; that is perhaps the sole reason she remains. "Cillian, I'm sorry."

The Sixer heaves a withering sigh, "Tis fine, quite alright. But rules are rules, and rules must be played by, hmm? Can you play by them, Alicia?"

"Of course."

"Good girl, pretty girl," and just like that she's forgiven and he's preening again. He flings himself from one end of the spectrum to the other with no stops and the velocity is momentarily jarring. "Let's start, shall we?"

* * *

><p>He starts with her forehead.<p>

And it earns her a location near their southern perimeter, a subtle gap in the fence when a determined individual could slip through. The one he himself used, he adds blithely and she makes a mental note to have it dammed up the moment she's above ground.

A second kiss to her cheek.

And a second hole in their defenses is shored up.

The third is to her wrist (at the pulse that fascinates him so), the fourth to her jaw line. Each leaves the feeling of an almost physical blemish, dirt marring her skin. But he doesn't try and touch her more than she permits, hand never straying above her knee. Through it all she can feel eyes upon her. Taylor pacing, fuming. She'd almost smile if it didn't mortify her so badly.

She leans back, silently deems she'll need to scrub herself raw in her next shower to rid herself of this feeling, and smiles. Smiles because he's watching her with the most peculiar sort of expression, almost as if he's puzzled.

"Is the Commander here?" She makes a little humming sound in place of a reply, the sound appropriately throaty. That too, causes him pause. He takes it as affirmation (which it is) and chuckles, gives her hand a delighted squeeze, "Oooh, good. This pleases me."

"Why should it please you?"

"Ah, because the good Taylor, the mighty Taylor, is not so very pure and not so very good. Because he covets you, pretty thing, _wants_ you."

"You don't say?"

Another jerky nod, almost childish, "I do indeed. He wants you more than Cillian wants you and that…" he chuckles to himself, "Is something indeed."

She be lying if she said his words didn't ignite at least a spark of feminine pride, though likely not for the reason he suspects. Wash grins lazily, runs fingers through his hair, "Then be grateful you're the one that has me."

It earns her locations five and six.

* * *

><p>When she leaves the chamber she's submitted herself to a grand total of seven kisses. By the time she climbs the stairs to return to the above ground it's an even sixteen.<p>

Cillian's last two kisses are placed directly on her lips and it leaves her with the unpleasant taste of him as she leaves the room. But he's smiling and giggling to himself and their defenses are entirely shored up. Her work is done.

She won't deny that the phrase sends a thrill through her.

And so she intends, innocently enough, to brag of her victory. Drinks at the bar (Shannon owes her more than one after what she's done for him), a long shower (purging her skin of any and all traces of this evening), and perhaps a glass of wine to top everything off before she falls into bed.

It's a beautiful dream and one she'd love to indulge.

Taylor watches her as she slides past him (and she fights the urge to shiver as her shoulder brushes his chest; she isn't some silly little girl and won't give him the satisfaction), those blue eyes of his burning. She doesn't even hesitate, simply moves past him, the map tucked under her arm. He's obviously displeased with the turn her meetings taken but says nothing. For all intents and purposes she assumes he'll let her pass.

She's wrong.

The Commander reaches out faster than she can process, grabs her arm. She is neither expecting nor braced for the movement and the force of it has her spinning rather awkwardly into his arms. Before she can protest (she wonders momentarily if she would even bother) he dips his head, catches her lips in a searing kiss. One of his hands is almost immediately tangled in her hair holding her still (as if she'd move away).

The emotion behind it is enough to inspire echoing traces in her own movements. It isn't gentle, its barely friendly, an expression of their mutual frustration, with the situation and themselves. He is marking his territory, a fact she's well aware of, with bruised lips. The thought amuses her more than it really aught. He's protective; he _covets_ her, as Cillian would so glibly point out.

Only it's impossible to covet something given freely, isn't it? How can he covet something he's had for the better part of the last two decades?

Her shoulders encounter the wall (and it almost irritates her how frequently he turns to using the structural integrity of the building against her), as he pushes, teeth grazing her lower lip. When she bites back, he growls, uses leverage and superior force to part her lips.

It's not entirely unakin to their previous fight, though she finds she prefers this form of debate. Tongues and teeth and gentle bruises will always trump words and express things far more naturally. He hasn't forgotten that she sided with Shannon over him; he gives her hair and yank and uses the new angle to press more tightly against her.

She hasn't forgotten his lack of trust; she drags fingers down his biceps, enjoying the friction the fabric creates between them, digs her nails in warning when the hand on her waist drops lower than propriety dictates. It fails to stop him and she arches instinctively as he gives her ass an affectionate squeeze. Moans as his tongue move against her own (and revels in the reaction it instantaneously earns her; he's miserably responsive to each of her calls), and moves a knee between his. It's impossible to breath and for a moment she finds she'd willing forsake every taking in oxygen again if it allowed them to remain like this. She teases his lips between her teeth as he moves away, reveling in their shared heat.

He brushes his nose against her cheek when he pulls back, uses her hair to incline her head ever so slightly to the side before ghosting kisses across the delicate skin there. She permits it, lets her eyes close, enjoying the sensation. A kiss to her forehead, her lips again, one between her breasts (and it earns him the most impossible little whimper, one that has him chuckling against her skin, stroking patterns up her spine). When he pulls away completely, her breath still coming in gasps, he takes her hands.

Presses a kiss lightly to the inside of her wrist.

Wrist, cheek, neck, lips, all places Cillian touched not moments early. One to her heart for improvisation. The bastard _had_ been watching. He _had_ been marking his territory.

He takes the map from her, ignores her scowl, and presses a final kiss to her pursed lips (and smiles when she nips at him).

She'd be furious if she weren't so damnably flustered.

* * *

><p>AN: Next chapter is likely the last or second to last. Most likely second to last. *sniff* We're reaching the end of this monster. And I thank god, cause this was a one shot and its ballooned to insane proportions. Have to finish this baby off before the finale. So that if I fall into a fit of grief (or, more likely, insane rage) this will still get finished.


	5. Chapter 5: Possessive

**A/N:** Just going to let you all read the chapter without my ranting this time. And lol, I've had one particular event that happens in this chapter totally planned from the start. But the BAMF mind link has rendered it moot. But it's here anyway. Because it's a desk. And we love desks.

You get an extra long chapter to make up for my delay in updating. REALLY LONG. Note the ratings change, dears.

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><p><strong>Chapter: Possessive<strong>

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><p>The sirens blare around her, echoing about the enclosed hallway. The sound is nearly deafening in its intensity, a shrill ringing in her ears entirely capable of disrupting conscious thought. It'd been a design decision based more in practicality than personal comfort; Taylor had wanted something capable not only of warning their people but of panicking intruders and dinosaurs. It's doing its job a little too effectively for her tastes. She throws a glare at the flashing lights above her head, waves absently as if she can bat aside the irritating sensation.<p>

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you."

Wash runs a hand through her hair, decides she looks suitably flustered, and opens the door to the interrogation room. She gulps down oxygen as if it has only just returned to her lungs, hand flying to the weapon still holstered on her hip. It's a shallow tactic, but an effective one. The moment she steps into the interrogation chamber, the red light lending her an anxious sort of glow, Cillian's eyes widen.

"Alicia…?"

She shakes her head, hoping it comes across as either a cool dismissal of his worries or a simple desire to make haste before their situation takes a downward turn instead of the annoyance it truly is. The cuffs are undone before he can voice a second question and she's dragging him behind her, a hand fisted in the material of his shirt, "Come on, Taylor will be here soon."

He hesitates, glances around them as if her words ring hollow, "We are leaving?"

"Not if we don't get a move on."

"_You_ wish to leave Terra Nova?"

She growls, tugs again. This time he relents though her refusal to answer is undoubtedly noted, dipping his head to smile as they move up the stairs. Quite frankly, she's exhausted and more than ready to put an end to this charade. If losing him in the jungle is all it takes she'll more than happily play out the remainder of her role. "When we get above ground, follow me closely, alright?"

"Yes, yes, of _course_, Alicia. It isn't as if I infiltrated your little home before my inglorious capture, hmm?"

When she glares, he shirks back a bit, nods his acceptance. Good boy.

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><p><em>Spending so many years skirting death has left her with senses honed to a point most would deem preternatural. It's a constant companion, a friend who calls, gleefully announces it presence by trailing elegant lines across her consciousness, heightens her concentration. The colors are sharper, the world keener; it's an odd sensation, one she never could have imagined years previously and one she can't imagine living without now. She's learned to trust her instincts. They have yet to fail her.<em>

_That sixth sense is humming in the back of her mind, disrupting lines of thought, as she climbs the steps of the Command center. It's early, the sun only just cresting the horizon. A new start, a new day, and yet she can't shake the notion that this is simply a continuation of an old feud. It stokes a suspicion she's only just becoming accustomed to, an almost physical sensation as she crosses the threshold. It's far from even ground they're meeting on. After spending so many years together she knows better than to expect a perfectly civil encounter._

_It's him and Shannon, conversing in tones almost hush. The sheriff of Terra Nova looks almost anxious, his jaw set, eyes hardly brightening when she enters the room. It's the first sign that something wrong. That they aren't being entirely honest with her. The smile Jim offers is a mockery of his usual liveliness, dying somewhere before it manages to reach his eyes. She receives a curt nod rather than a delicate jab. The Commander offers her nothing._

_She's walked in on something she has no part in. And for the life of her she cannot shake the feeling that there's something intrinsically wrong with that. She's always been by Taylor's side. Now she's a topic for discussion rather than a participant in it. It has her posture stiffening, standing comically straight._

_It's nearly paranoid, and she doesn't doubt others would her accuse her of it. But she's come to recognize his various moods, the subtle fluctuations in the tones of his voice, the very air that surrounds him. And while he regards her placidly enough, his arms crossed over his chest, head inclined slightly towards her, she knows better. This is an encounter, subtle though it is, another battle in the silent war they've been waging._

_"Wash," tone perfectly even. Taylor is never so formal, not with her, never with her. It's distant. Shannon move to stand further away, stares out towards the jungle beyond their gates. His silence unnerves her more effectively than the imposing desk or her superior's strange behavior._

_"Sir."_

_"Have a seat," he motions lightly to the chair across from him. It isn't a great distance, perhaps only a few feet, but it's more than she's accustomed to. It's the second sign that something is amiss. She never positions herself so far from him, preferring to hover by his side, lean her hip against the desk, a fist resting easily on her sidearm. It's as much about retaining freedom of movement, a desire to protect and shield him, as it is his proximity. If she does sit, and she rarely does, it's of her own volition, exhaustion dulling her instincts. He hasn't ordered her to do so since their early days in the colony. Even then it'd been because she'd insisted of pacing (he'd refused to allow her OTG; they'd fought then as well), despite her sprained ankle._

_He leans forward, a corner of his lips twitching up, "How's everything with our Sixer friend?" It's an odd question, has her quirking a brow. He's well aware of her progress, well aware of the situation. He has the map of their defenses resting before him, a visual representation of her success. That she'd claimed victory where he'd failed._

_"Finished, sir," as he's well aware, "Work's underway shoring up or defenses. Guzman's crew expects to be finished no later than tomorrow evening." But it can't be that either, can it? The document listing their security chief's progress rests beside her progress reports. She taps a finger against her knee, purses her lips, "I've extracted all pertinent information from the hostage."_

_"And what do you propose we do with him, Lieutenant?" Shannon snorts, shakes his head at the other man's question. When he receives a pointed glare, he holds up his hands, feigns innocence. Returns to staring at the nothing that fascinates him so entirely._

_Wash frowns, both at the question and its flat delivery, "It isn't my call, sir."_

_"No, it isn't. And I don't recall asking you to make it."_

_She stands (and imagines he smiles a bit; she's always been too active), indicates the files between them, "Let me take him." At his frown she forces herself to continue, leans heavily on the glass, "Tactical advantage, sir. We can't spare the troops; we can't expect him to just leave if we banish him. Engineer an escape; I'll take him into the jungle. I'll slip away; he'll presume me dead and will no longer be an issue. Win, win."_

_"Can't say I like the idea of you out there with him."_

_"You asked for my opinion, sir. I gave it."_

_He nods, "It's a sound strategy, Wash." Taylor leans back in his chair, folds his hands on his chest. She could almost excuse the posture if it wasn't coupled with the smirk tugging unapologetically at his features, "What's your schedule look like tonight?"_

_"Open."_

_"Not anymore. Rendezvous with Guzman. See that he gets you what you need." Almost as an afterthought, he makes a gesture, turns the entirety of his attention back to the material strewn across his desk. "Dismissed."_

_She nods, still unable to shake the dread gnawing at her. It's too easy, too simple. Taylor doesn't cave so easily, doesn't allow his soldiers to march into situations he perceives as dangerous. She doesn't question it, simply turns, hears Shannon on her heels. They're at the door before Taylor calls out to the other man._

_"Shannon, hold back a minute." Jim shoots her an apologetic look, the sort that says he'd known he'd have to stay behind. The kind that says this is nothing more than a show for her benefit._

_She grits her teeth._

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><p>They are perhaps five feet out the door when she feels hands grasping at her. Instinct kicks in before reason and she drives her elbow back into the abdomen of her attacker. Whoever it is lets out a surprised huff of air, crumpling. A second manages to twist her arm and she lashes out with a wicked kick to the shin. She figures she's doing fairly well for herself till three more sets of arms are desperately trying to restrain her (none of them clinging too closely and none daring to venture beyond her shoulders; under orders they may be but no one wants to risk Wash's ire and groping her, unintentionally or otherwise, is the best way to end up on dawn patrol till kingdom come); Cillian fairs moor poorly. His expression is one of horror as her attackers descend. He isn't given more time to contemplate assisting her.<p>

A well aimed fist connects squarely with his jaw, a sharp snapping sort of sound resounding through the cacophony. There's no small amount of force behind the blow and the slight man crumples, folds in on himself as he clutches his jaw in pain. He makes no attempt to rise, simply curls his legs to his chest and groans.

Shannon shakes his hand out, chuckling to himself, "Well, that was satisfying."

"Jim?" Wash stares at him, glances between the prone man and her friend's triumphant visage. From the roster upstairs, he's off duty. In fact, she remembers rather vividly insisting that he take the night off to spend with his family. On the other hand, she can't recall a time Shannon's ever been where he's supposed to.

"Oh, yeah," he nods at her, as if this is part of the plan. As if it's an everyday occurrence for him to walk in on her being forcibly restrained by her own men. He nudges Cillian in the ribs with the toe of his boot, "Taylor wanted to do it but…he was running late so…man has to do what he has to do. For the good of the colony, and all that," the wicked curve of Shannon's lip leaves little the imagination. While no one would ever think to argue that the Sixer aught be immune to punishment, she's fairly confident most wouldn't be so eager to inflict it. Jim frowns at the kids restraining her, "You sure that's necessary?"

"Commanders order, Mr. Shannon."

"Sorry, Wash, Commander's order."

"I'm not deaf, Shannon."

He smiles widely, "Just making sure. Those sirens can play hell with your hearing."

She releases a withering sigh, "Mind telling me what's going on?"

"And spoil the Commander's evening? Sorry, Wash. You'll just have to sit tight." He doesn't appear even slightly apologetic, his spirits infinitely higher than they were this morning.

Taylor's face is strikingly serious when he finally arrives, clad in his field armor, Reynolds trailing along behind him. She won't deny that it lends his an impressive gravitas but it renders him cold looking, too stony, too distant compared to the man she's come to know. He's her commander now and solely that. Something flares to life in those cobalt colored eyes, openly hostile as they settle upon the man lying between them. The Sixer lifts his head just enough to take in the new arrival. He lowers himself back to the ground immediately, buries his head beneath his arm, emits a tiny whimper.

Taylor, cruel , cruel, cruel. Her lips twitch up in an echo of a smile.

"Everything under control here, Shannon?"

The younger man nods, crosses his arms across his chest, "Yes, sir. Wash here put up a bit of a fight but it was nothing half a dozen men couldn't handle." He winks and she can't help but roll her eyes.

"And our Sixer friend?"

He makes an absent gesture at the groaning man. It doesn't surprise her, not even in the slightest, that her superior officer grins. The expression is far from friendly, too toothy and halfway feral. She's seen it before (and despises it; she has no memory of it ever preceding an event that didn't take a decidedly downward turn) and tenses when he turns it upon her, "Funny, seeing you out Lieutenant."

She bars her teeth more than smile, "You know me, sir. Always busy."

"That's one way to put it." The sirens have faded or died out entirely. A stray civilian will occasionally poke their head outside but for the most part the colonies streets are devoid of life. It leaves only their breathing, their conversation, coloring the night air. She remains arguably placid, muscles tensing in the grasp of those restraining her.

"Reynolds."

"Yes, sir?"

His eyes never leave hers, their intensity stoking something she'd rather not admit to feeling, "You and two other soldiers will escort the lieutenant back to her quarters. You will consider her under house arrest until otherwise noted. Do I make myself clear?"

The kid glances between the two of them, visibly puzzled, before nodding, "Yes, sir."

Taylor doesn't offer her anything else, simply turns and marches towards the rovers. Shannon throws her an apologetic look before bending to pluck the Sixer from the ground, hands fisting in the back of his shirt. Jim's smile is too wide to carry any illusion of friendliness, drags the man to his feet, "C'mon, buddy. You, me and the Commander are gonna go for a little ride."

Cillian moans, Reynolds takes her arm from one of the other soldiers, gives a gentle tug, "If you'll follow me, ma'am." The last she sees of the three of them is Jim shoving the lanky Sixer into the back of their rover.

* * *

><p>To say things have been tense around the colony the past week would be an understatement. Perhaps one of the greatest understatements ever made, Reynolds thinks to himself as he leads his fuming lieutenant towards her home. Silently, he thanks her for being either being to furious to notice him or in enough control to spare him.<p>

He hasn't been in many relationships. If he's being perfectly honest, his only real romantic experience is with Maddy. He knows enough, however, to know that what's happening between the Commander and the Lieutenant cannot be healthy. Something, and he doesn't have an interest in knowing what exactly, happened between them. Something has shifted, skewed the lines they've operated under for years, removed a gear in whatever the hell helps them function. It's thrown their expertly constructed balance out of whack, feelings and decisions suddenly grinding against each other. It's caused frustration, more than a little tension between them.

He wouldn't mind. It's their own business, something personal they have to deal with themselves.

But it's affecting their decisions, their judgment and that's dangerous for the colony. He'd tell Alicia as much, but she's visibly furious and he has no interest in learning whether or not he can effectively function without the usage of all his limbs. She kicks at a rock as they move and he winces.

He knows that adults have their spats but this…seems a little melodramatic.

He can't, for the life of him, imagine ever having to place Maddy under house arrest. Even the notion causes him to chuckle and it earns him a fierce glare. He attempts to muffle it, coughs violently, thumps his chest. It's an undeniably poor showing but she has the decency to permit it, returns to whatever's thoughts she finds so fascinating.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about this," he mutters, gives her arm a friendly squeeze. He expects the face of his self-proclaimed sister to soften as it has so many times in the past. Her expression remains unchanged but her eyes do warm a little, the muscles beneath his hand suddenly less tense.

"It's not you I'm angry with."

"He's just trying to protect you, Alicia," he smiles, tone warm. The mention of their commander loses whatever ground he's gained with her. They've reached her home and he reaches out to her before she can slip inside, says softly, "You can't blame the man for that."

For a moment, he fancies he's gotten through to her. Her features take on a faraway look, not entirely unfriendly. It's gone as quickly as its come. And while her voice is soft, its steeled with something he would prefer never being on the receiving end of, "No, I couldn't," She scowls, shakes her head, "But that isn't what this is, Reynolds. He's a vindictive bastard, screwing with me again."

Or that.

He sighs, takes a long breath, "We'll be outside if you need us, Alicia."

His friend does not reply, inclines her head and closes her door.

One of the other soldiers casts him an apologetic look and he simply shrugs. It isn't his problem. The colony is presently out of danger. It's _thei_r problem.

And for both their sakes, he hopes they work things out. The sooner the better.

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><p>The soldiers he's posted at Wash's door are visibly tense by the time he arrives and he doesn't doubt for a second the woman's been giving them hell. Reynold's trots over almost as soon as he's within sight, his expression concerned. It's been a little less than two hours since he'd assumed his post and while the length of time would usually be enough to pacify an individual it's only given Wash time to stew in her frustration. That her home is so eerily silent does not inspire confidence.<p>

He snaps off a quick salute, "Everything's been fine here, Commander." The kid doesn't inquire as the status of his own mission. Terra Nova's Commander looks much the same as when he departed; that he hasn't returned covered in blood (his or something else's) is both telling and rare. The general consensus is to consider the brief jaunt a success.

Something inside him preens; a success indeed. They'd left the Sixer well outside the colonies borders, nursing his jaw and cursing at them. The memory warms him more than it should. Perhaps he is a little vindictive.

He motions for the young solider to relax, smiles as the kids posture relaxes only slightly. He's most certainly one of Wash's boys, "She doing alright?"

The kid winces, "Depends. How near her do you intend on getting?"

Very, his mind gleefully supplies. He quickly dismisses the thought, "That bad?"

"She's had some colorful things to say about your parentage."

"I don't doubt it," he's had the pleasure of watching her turn similar frustration towards others. It's an awe inspiring experience and had enlightened him as to the extent of her vocabulary. To say it is varied is an understatement. He nods towards the other two soldiers, waiting patiently on either side of her door, "Dismissed, boys. You've done well tonight."

They beam, all too eager to remove themselves from the situation. Only Reynolds hesitates, then, "I wouldn't recommend pushing her, sir. Alicia…Wash, she needs time, you know? Just…let her cool down."

It's good advice, sound advice. An excellent recommendation.

Unfortunate, then, that Taylor's never been overtly proficient at listening to it. When Reynolds is safely away, he steps towards her house.

"Wash? You home?" He knows the jab will frustrate her. He opens her door, knocks, lightly against the frame. Redundant, as he's already crossed the threshold. It's a reversal of their earlier position. She'd marched into his den, head held high to present her case, her reasoning for the dismissal of the Sixer. She'd lost.

And now here he stands, in her home, her den. It's an amusing parallel.

Wash doesn't pout, doesn't scream or rage at him, simply glares at him from her seat on the couch, over the rim of her wine glass. It's a fine red from the looks of things, spicy and warm, the sort he knows she prefers. It also bodes ill for him. Scotch is her playful drink, her comfort, a thing to share with friends. Wine is for frustration, irritation, a desire to coax herself into relaxing. From her posture it hasn't done its job.

"Enjoying your evening, lieutenant?"

She sneers, rises and crosses to her kitchen, "Oh, of course, sir. You know how I love being idle. "She downs the remainder of her glass, sets it beside the bottle. If the level is to be believed she's only just dipped into her liquor. Good. "Is there something you wanted, Commander?"

"Just to check on you. Apologize for my behavior earlier."

"For lying?" He shrugs. "You could have told me." He didn't have to play false, didn't have to keep his intentions from her. As his second, she would have endorsed his decision, supported him.

They both realize that's a lie. Because had he told her, she would have insisted on accompanying them. She wouldn't have permitted him enter the jungle alone.

The fact of the matter is that he couldn't allow that. She'd finished her task, had shored up their defenses and had gained everything of value from the Sixer. The fact of the matter is that he had barely been able to tolerate her being near him when they'd had a goal. The moment it had been completed he'd wanted her as far from his as possible.

The notion of leaving her alone with him, letting him lead her around the primeval forest, caused his skin to itch, his gut to turn. He trusts her, with his life, his colony, his everything, but that had stretched the boundaries of his fraying patience. And he will not deny he finds this side of her, this confidence, this half of her so eager to combat him, intoxicating.

"Could have, but I didn't want to." He moves behind her, rests hands on either side of her. It earns him a bemused look. "Don't tell me you're _worried_, Wash…" he trails off, smirks. The notion of her fretting over the other man causes something flares to life, deep in his gut, irrational as it is. He's seen her worried and this is most certainly not it. But he teases, prods and pushes.

Something flashes in her eyes; he knows immediately that he's made a mistake, trapping her like this. Suddenly, in that militaristic mind of hers, their situation is reduced to fight or flight. Stand or break.

In the end, she chooses some twisted middle ground directly between.

The swing she takes at him lacks the force that would follow it if she were entirely committed to the action. He catches her wrist before the blow connects, gives it a warning squeeze. The motion is repeated with her other hand. She lunges up, crushes her lips against his even as she shoves, attempts to put distance between them.

"Jealous," she breathes, digs her nails against the back of his hands, their entwined fingers seeming too intimate for their frustration. "You're jealous." She snickers, as if it simultaneously disgusts and amuses her. _Covetous_. The word rushes to him, unbidden, a memory an unwarranted summation from the Sixer now wandering the jungle. The little bastard that had thought himself capable of claiming _his_ second.

"Do I have a reason to be?" He bites back, slides his hands beneath the fabric of her shirt, traces the raised edges of scars long since healed even as his words pick at the scab of their most recent quarrel.

"Maybe," she's snarling more than speaking, drags teeth along his jaw, "Did you know he _loved_ me Taylor? How's a girl supposed to react to that?"

"You aren't a girl, Wash." Taylor throws the phrase she's so fond of using back in her face. No, she most certainly isn't a girl. She's a woman, plain and simple. And women are not so naïve as to fall so easily for honeyed words when eyes roam across her figure. She grunts her agreement; no, they both know she isn't so stupid. The man was a nuisance, clinging to her heels, cloying in his affection.

Perhaps he'd loved her, but the feeling had been far from mutual. She's playing their old game, pushing, pushing, pushing until he pushes back. Taylor's antagonized her, confined her to her home, betrayed her trust and pulled rank on her. She shoves back. Digs at a wound she knows infuriates him. His weakness where she's concerned, where the Sixers concerned.

And it is a weakness, plain and simple.

"Jealous," she purrs again, breathes against his ear.

He isn't jealous.

"He loved me, Taylor. _Wanted_ me," it's positively wicked, the pitch her voice has adopted. Foreign, when compared to the woman he's come to know and trust. That he's inspired such a change fascinates him, "Does that _frustrate_ you?"

He isn't jealous.

It's simply a challenge. She chides and teases and pushes. He's more than capable of pushing back. In a single move, he lifts her, finds she's more than willing to comply, wraps her legs around his waist. She insists the man loves her, means something to her; he wants to see just how deeply that devotion runs. A test. Another challenge to see if she's as good as her word.

He feels her grip tighten instinctively when he veers away from her bedroom and chuckles against her skin. Ever so suspicious, his lieutenant. He follows the halls to one of her spare rooms. When he'd insisted she leave the barracks, nearly three years earlier, this had been his gift to her. An office of her own, where she could work and fuss and oversee the colony, even if a particularly rigorous event laid her low. She'd reacted as if he'd presented her with some rare diamond necklace, all smiles. To his chagrin, Wash had finished assembling her office before she'd even considered turning her attention to the traditionally more important rooms. Such as a bedroom.

As with all things regarding his lieutenant, the space is kept meticulously neat. The desk she'd moved is the standard issue variety, precisely the same model they'd moved to the chamber for Shannon. It sends a wave of something dangerously similar to delight through him. And for once, he is grateful for her Spartan approach to decorating. He kicks her chair aside, deposits her on the surface. With the low light, the emptiness of the room, it isn't a far cry from the interrogation chamber. She lets out a hiss of breath, clearly furious. He's made this about a lack of trust, a sick sort of revenge. They're back there, beneath the earth.

And as she nips and digs at his skin, it's clear she's more than willing to abide by his supposed rules. Her left hand fists in the short hair at the base of his neck, the right leading his own hand to rest on her waist. "Trying to prove something, sir?"

His smile is too toothy to ever be considered friendly, too aggressive for intentions to be missed. It's wider than comfort should demand, almost feral, "Getting you to admit to something."

"On my desk?"

"Seemed as good a place as any."

She hums her disagreement, leans back while pulling him forward. An amusing sort of contradiction. She holds him against her chest, squirms when he reaches up to pull a strap from her tank down her arm. She's obliging, flings the garment away from her before crashing back into him, a far cry from what she'd been earlier. No desire to fight him on this. She wonderfully warm, her bare torso creating intriguing friction through his shirt.

"Don't remember you being so eager before."

"Mmm, maybe I have more pleasant memories to keep me occupied this time around."

For all her supposed indifference to his ministrations she reaches down to undo his belt, lifts her hips to assist him in the removal of her fatigues. She permits him to lead her hand away, "That so?"

"Woman in love and all that," she grinds out, fingers digging into his shoulder as his free hand finds a breast, kneads it gently. It earns him an appropriately throaty groan, breath warm against his shoulder. She sucks lightly against his neck, in time with his pulse.

"A woman in love, huh?" Alicia's expression is almost curious, absently watches his hands trail down to her thigh. He squeezes, nudges her legs apart with his knee. Again finds no resistance. Fascinating. He slips a finger beneath the elastic of her undergarments, raises a brow at her choice. Lacy and impractical and black. And expensive looking. He gives a yank and the delicate material gives way, tosses the ruined slip away from them. She'll be angry with him later, of that he has no doubt.

At the moment, neither of them much cares.

His ever so steeled second lets out a despicably airy sound when he slides a finger insider her, "With whom?" he purrs, "What's his name?"

"I…It's…" Wash groans, tries to think and finds the words no longer exist. "_Shit_…" C..Cil...Sim...for gods sake.

"He loves you. Seems like it shouldn't be so hard to remember who loves you, huh, Wash? "She lets out a gasp rather than a response, her quick tongue faltering momentarily as a second finger joins the first. It's positively intoxicating, watching her control unravel in such a manner, stripped away until the solider, the lieutenant, everything else, has faded leaving only Alicia the woman. The emotional nudity is more telling than her physical state of undress. What's more than that, she knows it, loathes it, and digs her fingers into the skin of his shoulders, leaving pretty crescents indented in flesh. His hisses, she rocks against him, nails biting in a desperate attempt to keep her rooted in the present, to cling to something physical, a sensation created solely by her, to clear the fog rapidly encroaching on her consciousness.

She screws her eyes shut to hide their glassy quality. Growls to herself and focuses, focuses, focuses because she won't permit herself to come undone again. Won't allow him to have this victory over her. She never shifts away, her body remains gasping against him, but he knows even as she does it, even as she writhes and attempts to still herself, that she's left him. It's something they both excel at, this ability to distance themselves from the situation. And while normally he would laud her control (her eyes remain closed, teeth barred, clamped down on the sensations flooding her body; she's leaving him, searching for a name. The stubborn desire to win out in a foolish challenge overcoming the more immediate desire for physical gratification) it's a damn nuisance now.

His free hand guides her back to him, fists in her hair, lips bruising against hers. As a soldier, he can't say he's ever been an overtly gentle lover but he's hardly cruel and has never been one for violence. Pain has always presented itself as an entirely different entity and he's seen no reason to intertwine the two. He's towing that line now (because he knows, better than even she perhaps that a bit of pain is the only thing that will bring her back. Pleasure she can dull, pain she must fight. It's in her nature to fight) teeth and tongue grazing her mouth, more challenging than affectionate. It's openly chiding for her change in tactics, taunting her for thinking he might be so easily dismissed. The message evidently translates. She replies in kind, trails her tongue along his lower lip and bites (bites, not nips, he notes with no small amount of amusement), tugging lightly. One of her hands makes its way to the nape of his neck, holds him to her more tightly and refuses to let him break contact immediately when it becomes clear they require air. It's a juvenile sort of punishment but it doesn't dull her smirk; who's he to talk of cheap ploys when he's got his hand between her legs?

Frankly, he doesn't have a response.

Wash moans as he strokes her, fingers teasingly light (they are both aware she despises such ministrations and he nearly laughs when she shifts to facilitate more contact), leans back, exposes the column of her neck. The low light of the office offers her a very flattering hue, bathes her naturally warm skin in lingering shades of gold's and oranges, shadows trailing intriguing patterns across her bare shoulders and torso. He's half tempted to map each of them to memory but this is hardly the place for such idle fancy. A stray hand (his or hers, he's not entirely sure which; perhaps both, she's linked their finger somewhere in the past few moments) knocks a most unfortunate datapad to the floor, its crash breaking the stillness of the night. He tries to look and she growls, the sound impossibly low and undeniably alluring in her voice, draws him back for a quick kiss before arching, guiding his head to her breasts. He's more than willing to comply, presses a feather light kiss against her clavicle.

He sucks against the skin, delights at the purple discoloration it leaves. It's immediately a game, something to win, something to conquer. He marks his path with purples and near blacks, occasionally adding teeth, physical representations of where he's been and who precisely she belongs (he hesitates, even in moments such as these, to consider she belongs to anyone, let alone him, but will not deny the wicked pleasure that accompanies the notion) to (with).

"God!"

"Thinking a little highly of yourself, lieutenant," Her walls tighten around him, and despite the half-way pleading pitch of her voice he does not cease his ministrations, presses with a bit more force. She welcomes the much needed friction, scoots forward on the desk. "Fairly certain that's not it," He manages, tries to rid his own tone of the rasping quality it's somehow developed. "Try again, Wash. What's his name?" She practically convulses against him, smirking as teeth scrape gently over the rise of a breast, "Who's the bastard that loves you?"

She bites down hard on her lip, tries to focus, tries to think and finds there's no longer a place for it. His fingers find some precise, impossible spot and she screams, each of her thoughts shattering. The composed lieutenant's nail dig (and he doesn't doubt for a second they've torn skin), head lolls back. She finds only one word through the haze, speaks it because he's still muttering his damnable questions against her chest, and its tastes of the correct answer as it passes her lips, "Nathaniel!"

A part of him knows it's nothing, simply a reaction to the sensations he's inflicted upon her. A part of him knows it's nothing more than a mistake. A more traitorous selection cheers at the perceived triumphs, lauds its cleverness and delights in it's conquer. _Nathaniel_. It is his name she calls.

She realizes the unfortunate timing of her outburst immediately, goes positively rigid as he withdraws from her. He's seen her embarrassed before, seen her composure torn aside, seen her cheeks flush a girlish shade of pink and seen words fly from her, but he's never seen her look openly ashamed (and he finds he despises the expression on her). Wash sets her jaw, gives his shoulder a gentle push. Amber eyes refuse to meet his as she slides from the desk to stand on unsteady legs. She makes no move to retrieve her discarded clothes (it would be a weakness), simply crosses her arms over her chest, seeming to curl in herself. He watches as she schools her features into a familiar mask of dispassion, shields snapping back into place. She's left him again and her tone is neutral, almost cold, despite the attractive flush still playing across her skin.

She'd called his name. It sends a thrill through him.

"You should leave, sir."

Taylor nods, purses his lips. He should. He'd come here to prove a point, hadn't he? He's done so. He should leave, give them both the time needed to work this out. Time to cool off, formulate tactics, approach this with their traditional military discipline. He should leave.

Funny, how he finds he has neither the will nor desire to do so.

"No."

She's halfway to the door when he responds and she turns on him, eyes narrowing. Beneath the pretty façade she's erected, he can see some of the shame still burning there, "No? You have something else to prove, Commander? You'll have to excuse me, sir; I've had enough for one evening." The end is a less than subtle warning. That if he remains in her home any longer she'll resort to taking action.

He never has been one to adhere to warnings though. She knows that as well as him.

So she really shouldn't be terribly surprised when he catches her arm before she can make good of her escape (but she is) and she really shouldn't be overtly shocked when he uses her momentum against her, holds her flush to him (and pointedly ignores her fury). It's almost as if she bites out each of her words, muscles coiling beneath his grip, "Let go, sir, now." It isn't some idle threat. Like some feral predator, her hair wild about her face and shoulders, she glares up at him, waits for his decision before acting upon her own. She's been more than gracious. Offered him a second out, a way to return to their friendship, ignore this. Let her go, everything returns to normal over time.

He should (and so he doesn't). Instead, he inclines his head lightly to the side, blue eyes tinged with an undeniable fondness. He should flee; instead he takes a page from Wash's own playbook and steps into the force capable of undoing him. He kisses her, and while she doesn't immediately resist him, he isn't surprised when she returns to their earlier pace, snarling and nearly violent. Punishing him for his treatment of her, punishing him for forcing her to confess truths she's likely never admitted to herself. It seems to catch her off guard when he refuses to fight back. She nips, he caresses, she tugs, he soothes, all push and no resistance. He's almost (and he loathes using the word) gentle. Apologetic, affectionate. She hesitates, almost as if the change confuses her.

She pulls away from him, puzzled, eyes widening as he presses a kiss to her forehead.

This isn't them. This isn't what they've been doing.

"Still have something to prove if you're willing to hear me out."

Wash regards him distrustfully, "Sir…"

"Or I could order you to listen," and that coaxes her latent irritation back to life. Good; he smiles as a bit of her trademark fire returns to her. He chuckles, gives her shoulder a reassuring pat, "All things considered, I'd prefer it didn't come to that."

"It doesn't seem like I have much choice in the matter."

He smiles, "Don't have to be so prickly about it, Wash." She snorts, tosses her head. Prickly is a mild term to use. But she's willing to play along. She has yet to strike him, hasn't tried to escape the circle of his arms. He traces lazy patterns down across her shoulders, fingers absently mimicking the blueprint left by the broken light as it licks across her skin, "You're right, you know."

"Sir?"

They hate speaking. Perhaps not hate in the traditional sense of the word, perhaps not for every day mundane matters. But feelings are things neither of them has ever been capable of putting eloquently into words, ever been able to express openly. And why should they be? They are deeply personal, more often than not a weakness, a chink in their armor easily exploited. Behavior is more important, looks are more important, actions are more important. They relationship, whatever it is, whatever it will be, is defined solely by action, on things both will never speak, rather than flowery words. So she blanches when he looks at her, really looks at her, blue eyes impossibly bright in the low lighting of her office, expressing with no doubt that her response to his earlier question had been true.

She'd called his name. And a part of his refuses to shunt it aside as a matter of chance.

"Seems like something a man should prove," and hell, his voice is despicably low.

It's strange, the change in her demeanor. Where she had been comfortable before, entirely at ease with the aggression, with being in the moment, suddenly she's nearly awkward, hesitant. Sex she can handle. Love making…

She loves him. He knows this, has known this, and doesn't for a second doubt it; even as her eyes desperately try and reassure him it's true. But Wash has never been keen on expressing intimate feelings (and he agrees) and this is more than she is prepared for. She leans back infinitesimally when he moves to kiss her.

He doesn't move to engage her. He waits, precisely where he is, waits for her to decide she can handle it.

Lieutenant Washington has never been one to balk in the face of a challenge. She growls at her own foolish behavior and closes the distance between them, resolves to sort any troublesome feelings out later.

It's soft and unsure (two things he knows she loathes, and it's enough to set him chuckling. It earns him a warning squeeze) and new. For once he doesn't push, keeps his hands resting on her elbows. It's young and naïve, and closer to something she'd expect from Reynolds and the Shannon girl than either of them. She isn't entirely certain if she finds that notion charming or irritating. Wash smiles against him, slowly warming to this new sensation, appreciating the intimacy when juxtaposed with their earlier encounter.

"Sir," She leans back, bites her lip (and he finds the uncertainty positively charming, entirely out of place as it is), stares at him through half lidded eyes. Tries to fight back a smile and isn't successful. "Prove it."

"Hmm?"

She takes a steadying breath, squeezes his bicep, "Please. Prove it."

Taylor simply nods, smiles (like an idiot, he can't help but think), and she threads their fingers together, leads him down the hall. Towards her bedroom. It'd be preferable to carry her, every bit of cinema, literature, lovesong, says he should but he knows better than to try it. That wretched stubborn streak simply won't allow it. She'll walk on her own two feet, damn it.

Wash turns, loops her arms about his waist, presses flush against him. It makes the trek far slower but it's difficult to focus on such matters when she's so wonderfully warm against his still clothed front. She chuckles, picks fretfully at the fabric, "This doesn't feel fair, sir."

"And how do you figure that?"

"You're wearing far too much."

Taylor snickers, "Patience is a virtue, lieutenant."

"In my experience, people only say that to comfort themselves when they're incapable of action."

"Well aren't you inspirational."

She nips at his chin, leans against him before tossing a look towards her bedroom.

"Use your words, Wash."

"Bed. Now."

Despite her constant need to make things difficult for him, they manage to make their way to the room without incident. When the back of her legs encounter the mattress, he loops an arm across her waist, tosses her. She lets out an undignified yelp of surprise. He doesn't immediately join her, too busy smirking at her amused expression. She arches a brow, manages to wrestle herself back into a sitting position. Her hands are immediately tugging at his shirt.

The Commander doesn't bother holding in his laughter, "Eager there are you?"

"Setting right an imbalance, sir."

"Is that what you call it?"

She shakes her head, manages to tug the fabric up to his shoulders. When he refuses to lift his arms, she growls, "No, it's a travesty."

He bats away her hands as they move to his belt, momentarily surrendering divesting him of his shirt. "At least I know where I stand with you."

"For god's sake, Taylor, stop talking, start undressing."

* * *

><p>For all her previous bravado, Wash is less certain with her movements, tensing as he leans over her, gently edges her knees apart. There's a realness to this now, a sort of finality, a validation of their relationship. It's in her mind, nothing more. It's silly, a girlish feeling, delight at finally having him in her bed. It's silly but it feels…more real.<p>

She flashes him a wobbly, completely un-Wash sort of smile. Where before she could hide behind rage and impulse now it's simply them, entirely aware of their decisions. She moans when he enters her, leans her head against his shoulder. It stills his movement entirely.

She's openly curious when he lays her back down, brushes her hair back from her face. Taylor's always been a handsome man, and she'll admit to having a fondness for his looks from practically their first meeting, but she can honestly say he's never had as profound an effect on her till now. There's a look of concentration, a conscious desire to restrain himself until he's assured it's the appropriate moment. His wonderfully pale eyes are almost devoid color, focused solely on her, as if she's the only (or at least the most important) thing in the world. It's gratifying and warms her more than it has any right to. He flashes her a devious smile, "Eyes on me, lieutenant."

Wash smirks, trails a hand lazily down to his ass, "You have something to prove?"

"Damn straight."

* * *

><p>Sometime later, when he goes to move off of her, intending to be a gentleman and save her from bearing the brunt of his weight, she wraps her arms around him, holds him still. It's surprisingly clingy for the independent woman but he indulges her, smiles as she places lazy kisses at seemingly random intervals across the planes of his face. Drags her lips from his cheek to his mouth before she settles on engaging him there.<p>

He's fairly well exhausted and breaks off before she gets any other ideas, tone lightly teasing, "You trying to prove something, lieutenant?"

She smiles, "No, sir. You?"

"Absolutely nothing." And he's not entirely certain he's ever seen her smile so wide or so openly. Because he remains because he desires to. Nothing to prove, no battle to win. He reaches down, grabs the blankets by their feet and tugs it up over them. He rolls off of her, loops an arm about her waist to drag her back to his side. Odd, how he has no desire to forfeit her warmth.

He falls asleep, her nestled by his side, and fancies, for the first time in a very long time, he's content. Wash makes a little noise in her sleep, throws a leg absently across his own, tucks her face under his chin.

He's content, nothing left to prove, nothing left to covet. And for once, he means it.

* * *

><p>The jungle around him seems to undulate with movement, nocturnal creatures weaving in and out of the underbrush. Not all are deadly, not all seek to do him harm. But all see and all know his shame. The Sixer clutches a hand to his aching jaw, lets out a low moan.<p>

He's failed again. Worse than before, infinitely worse than before.

Green eyes dark amidst the colorless foliage, search for a face no longer present, search for the stone walls that exist now only in memory. Taylor's pretty queen is gone, removed from him, taken from him, and now Cillian sits alone, all alone, the jungle creatures moving around him, watching, laughing.

He wrestles himself into a sitting position against a tree, attempts to make himself look small. His body, so long confined to the small cell, protests the motion but it matters little. The pain is a small thing compared to the wailing in his mind. Alicia, pretty, beautiful, perfect Alicia, her voice clear and smooth and pitched in desperation; it's her voice trilling about the corners of his consciousness, dragging nails across the thinning threads of his sanity.

He's failed her. Failed, failed, failed. Left her to Taylor, cruel, heartless, Taylor, who will punish her, hurt her, for her loyalty to Cillian. For being kind and lovely and positively perfect, for wanting the freedom of the Mira's jungle rather than her masters walls and cage.

He's failed her, yes he has. He's left her to Taylor, cruel, Taylor.

But he can make right, can't he? Yes. He won't fail again, no.

He won't fail her, not his pretty, beautiful, perfectly peachy Alicia. Not his angel. Not again.

* * *

><p><strong>Sky<strong>: Want to see a humorous math equation?

Taylor+ Wash+ Sexy times= One of Sky's favorite types of stories to read.

Taylor+ Wash+ Sexy Times= Sky's least favorite thing to write ever. EVER.

Perhaps it's because I'm bad at it. Or, more likely, because it's gets in the way of the snarking. Ah, snarking. AND SWEET LORD, next chapter is the last one! Could I have ended it here? YES! But I'm vindictive and cruel and so obviously I can't! Till next time, lovelies!


	6. Chapter 6: Green Eyes

A/n: We've reached the end of our little adventure. *sniff* And since this is the end of things, once more, for old time's sake, let's have some perspective switching fun times.

Yo, Taylor fans, let's have us some willing suspension of disbelief. Cause Wash needs to do the rescuing every once in a while. ;D

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter: Green Eyes<strong>

* * *

><p>He's vaguely aware of a ringing sound. It's faint at first, then increasingly persistent. But Shannon's a determined man and he's determined to ignore it. With a vague swat of his hand, the ringing ceases, a dull thump as his comm. unit falls to the floor. Elizabeth stirs beside him, nuzzles her nose against his chin, "What was that?"<p>

"No idea, but it's too late to call for anything dignified," she chuckles at his reply, the sound only half aware as sleep washes back over her consciousness. He feels it claim him as well, the world around him fading.

He isn't aware how long he sleeps, but pounding at his door finally does manage to rouse him. His wife favors him with a sympathetic smile as he slides from bed but makes no move to join him.

"Mr. Shannon, sir, please open up," it's Reynolds, his voice insistent.

The kid loses any goodwill he previously might have possessed.

"It's about the Lieutenant. We can't reach her or the Commander," he hears.

Shannon groans; kisses the idea of getting back to bed sometime before dawn goodbye. He leans back towards his bedroom, smirks at Elizabeth. She's rolled to his side of the bed, buried her face in his pillow. "Might want to get ready, Liz. Something tells me we're gonna need you."

He doesn't bother considering how he knows this. It's just a feeling. And if there's one thing Shannon's damn good at, it's feeling. He grabs his jacket, marches out to meet with the young soldier still shifting fretfully on his porch.

* * *

><p>Wash's body reacts before her mind comes to.<p>

The sound is barely more than footfall, something shifting out of place, the scrape of metal and little else. By all rights it should not be enough to steal her from her hard earned slumber, weeks of exhaustion weighing heavily upon her psyche. But it does, and the feeling of wrongness, of something she cannot put a name to is something she cannot shake even as she stares sightlessly into the darkness of her room. Years of rigid military vigilance sends each of her senses flaring into overdrive, searching, listening for the thing to come again.

It does, closer now, undoubtedly inside her home.

The heavy weight across her waist registers as an afterthought; the warmth at her back a striking contrast to the cool evening air. It's an odd sensation, but not an unpleasant one. She feels each of Taylor's muscles go taut behind her, arm tightening about her, signaling his awareness both of her return to consciousness and the intruder. The sound comes again and though her body protests she feels every fiber prepare to swing into action, the haze of sleep torn forcefully from her mind. Perhaps it's nothing (it's isn't, it's something and not a good something, she feels it in her gut), perhaps it's simply her overtired mind playing tricks on her. Taylor slides from beside her, silent as one of the shadows thrown on her walls, weaves in and out of the almost pitch blackness as he casts about for his trousers.

She frowns at the image; a stray bit of moonlight manages to break the thick cloud cover, throws the pallor of his skin in stark relief. It's gone as soon as it's come, and she's left with but a flash of white, the vibrant blue of his eyes. Something stirs inside her, a sense of dread she knows better than ignore, to dismiss as simple paranoia. Something is amiss.

"Nathaniel…"

It's difficult to make out in the low light, but his nod assures her he catches her nearly silent words. The man continues with his previous task, dresses. When she reaches out to touch his shoulder he pauses. Evidently, something about her current state fascinates him. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed again, though the obvious caution has yet to leave him. He's willing to humor her momentarily. She scowls, tugs the sheet up over her breasts, "Get me my clothes?"

"Think I like you better just like this, Wash."

It's little more than an attempt to distract her as they are both entirely too aware. She smirks, though she knows he can't truly see it. Before he can think better of it he brushes a stray bit of hair behind her ear, the motion oddly intimate, so simple, so mundane. It's almost like habit, a natural reaction he doesn't' even register, a testament to the level of comfort, the trust shared between them. The crash comes again, more insistent this time and he glares, gives her hand a squeeze before rising.

The dread returns.

"Wait," she swings her legs over the edge of the bed, feels around for her pants. Remembers, with more than a little frustration, that they've been left somewhere in her office. She feels the fabric of Taylor's shirt against her foot and reaches down to retrieve it, "I'm coming with you."

The material is halfway over her heard when he catches it, tugs it out of her grasp and tosses it somewhere. Frankly, it's one of the rare times she decides him wearing predominantly black is a damn nuisance. The material is near invisible and it's almost impossible to deduce precisely where it lands. He rests his hand on her waist, strokes a finger across her hip, "Nonsense, nothing to worry yourself over, Wash."

"Sir…"

"No arguments, lieutenant," when he can feel her ready to protest he leans nearer to her, whispers in her ear, "I don't suppose you considered that I don't want to risk you getting out of bed?" Her silence is taken as indignation and he chuckles lowly, "Gun still in the bedside table?" She nods. There's one in the bedside table, the second drawer of her dresser, a knife behind her headboard, one beneath her mattress, another tucked behind the various knick knacks on her shelf. She's been teased (by Shannon, Reynolds, and_ both_ Taylors, nearly all the men in her life now that she looks back) that she has enough weaponry stowed about her home to arm a small mob. What can she say? She's learned from the best. From Taylor's appreciative smirk, he's as aware of it as she.

He collects the weapon, checks it briefly before moving past her. For the tenseness in his posture, the obvious wariness in his stance, his tone is remarkably light, "Be back before you can miss me." It sounds like something Shannon might say and she rolls her eyes, waves him off.

"That sounds like a challenge."

He smiles, shakes his head, "Everything always is with you." But his tone is undeniably fond, as if he wouldn't have it any other way. He shuts the door to her bedroom behind him, the silent click almost jarring in the unnatural silence.

The crash comes again.

* * *

><p>It's well after midnight, nearer to dawn, when he manages to slip back within the colony. He doesn't doubt that someone might have seen him, that those pesky camera's might have taken note of him as he slips through one of the holes in their gate (tsk, tsk, give a girl such pertinent information and the daffy daisy doesn't even act on it) . Only he's beyond caring really, beyond much of anything. There's only one thought, one alone, desperate and burning in his gut, in the space behind his eyes.<p>

Alicia's voice, pretty and haunting, spectral and somehow an almost physical force as it caresses his consciousness, leads him on. His jaw aches, his muscles screaming in protest as he pushes them on. Always forward, never ceasing, never, never, never. The Sixer slides through the shadows, allows them to wash over him, clothe him like a second skin. It's the most liberating sort of freedom, the most intoxicating sort of thing, to glide undetected through enemy territory. Almost like an old movie, yes. A dashing hero, rushing to the rescue of his fair lady, no amount of ill treatment, no obstacles, able to stop him.

And in the end, there are very few obstacles, very few indeed. The colony is lifeless, a ghost town, only the occasional call of a faraway nocturnal creature, lingering outside the gates. His feet lead him on, haste, frustration, urging him on. The good lieutenants home is not difficult to pick out amidst the rabble; meticulously neat and somehow simply _her_. It is difficult to put a name to but he doesn't for a moment doubt it; as she so often does, knowingly or otherwise, she has left a mark, an almost visible signature, on what she claims as her own.

The door is not locked (silly, silly girl, oh, any monster could simply slip inside). He cocks his head lightly to the side, considers simply calling out to her. But it would be foolish, yes. So late, so dark, and his Alicia undoubtedly sleeps so soundly. He leaves things as they are, doesn't dare disturb this shrine, this most sacred ground where the very air is colored with her scent. A bottle of wine rests on her counter, barely touched. He smiles, ghosts fingers across the rim of her glass. Imagines her lips there, imagines her lips on his again…

He's stolen from his pleasant reverie by a nearly silent click from down the hall. A bedroom door, a momentary sound nothing more than a scratch against his senses. It's nothing, but the lights do not suddenly flair into being. His Alicia does not march out, her dark hair all in disarray. No, not even a sound reaches his ears. But he feels it, feels something as it ghosts through the near blackness. He slides against the far wall, tucks himself against the corner, feels for something to use as a weapon. There's a rifle hanging not far from him, he makes for it, low to the ground.

It is Taylor, the wicked, wicked, wicked Commander who emerges from the good lieutenants bedroom, a brief, most unfortunate stream of moonlight illuminating him. The impressive man, the very figure of heroism given life, has a gun in hand (and Cillian fights to the urge to giggle to himself; foolish, silly man, as if such a little thing might save him in the dark) blue eyes little pin pricks of light in the darkness. It summons a loathing that threatens to tear his soul asunder, burn what little remains of his control, his awareness, to see the man in his Alicia's home. Her voice simultaneously hisses and purrs in his mind, so miserably suggestive, taunting. How beautiful the Commander is, how terribly arresting and how could beautiful Alicia resist such a thing? Had it not been something he had taunted the other man for. His nightmares are given life.

His grip tightens on the weapon in his hands, the heavy weight soothing, comforting, cool against his heated flesh.

Cillian doesn't believe, no, not for a second, not one little second, that he would last against the other man in a fight, most certainly not a fair one. No not a bit, not for a second. But Cillian is not so proud as to demand a duel for his ladies honor. Dead is dead is dead however he meets his end and so the method matters so terribly little in the grand of schemes. Tightens his grip on the cool metal sitting in his lap. Doesn't breathe, doesn't dare breathe, lest the great predator, the hunter, turn his attention here.

Taylor (wicked, wicked, cruel) moves nearer, obviously alert, eyes scanning the darkness. Given another second he might have discovered him.

It doesn't take a strong man to swing effectively and Cillian is not so weak. Perhaps the only thing that saves the older man is his preternatural awareness. He turns before the blow connects, manages to get an arm between them. The rifle connects with a dull thud, doubles the man as it connects with his ribs.

The follow up strike to his head isn't enough to kill (no, no, no, it'd be poor form to kill him, hmm? Very poor indeed, too quick, too easy) but his vision swims, the darkness of the room traded for the blackness behind his eyes.

The Sixer cackles to himself, gives a hard shove and kneels on the Commanders chest, dangles a pair of cuffs in front of his face (his own, ooh, the very same he'd worn for so very, very long), "You aren't supposed to be here, Taylor, sir, no, no, not here. Shame, shame, shame."

Tis indeed a shame. He frowns as the bigger man tries to struggle free. He takes another swing, delights as his captor, his tormentor, slips into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>The sound of laughter from the other room has her on her feet before her mind finishes processing the sound, her fingers automatically reaching for the knife behind her head board. It comes loose with a tug. She feels about for Taylor shirt, finds it quickly and pulls it over her head, never pausing. Her nerves, usually so steeled, so composed, are humming, the heated energy tearing through her control, orders her forward.<p>

Light burns her eyes, thrown abruptly from absolute darkness to the warm orange glow of the chem. lights. It isn't as horrible as it might have been, but the sensation momentarily causes her pause. She rounds the corner.

Wash considers herself a fairly composed individual. She handles stress well; she handles the severity of situations with aplomb. Perhaps it's her training, perhaps simply something intrinsically part of her being. She's grown accustomed to a quiet calm overtaking her when danger, death, anything, rears its head.

There is only rage now, perfectly pooled in her gut, spreading to warm the entirety of her body. A desire to leap into action before thinking, act without reason; it's dangerous and she clamps down on the sensation, forces herself to remain rooted in place. Her grip on the knife behind her back tightens until her knuckles are an ashen white, the metal biting painfully against her skin.

Cillian is there, a look of surprise momentarily flitting across his features, a knife dangling precariously from his grasp. It matters very little to her. Her attention is fixed entirely on her Commander. An ugly purple bruise is beginning to blossom across his forehead, a matching one across his ribs, marring pale skin that had been perfect not moments before. She's used to the irrational reaction the man inspires in her but the absolute hatred is something she isn't braced for. His head is lolling forward, chin resting against his chest. There's no blood that she can see but it does little to assuage her.

"Alicia!" The Sixer is purring to her, taking in her appearance with more than the appropriate amount of interest. He winces under the heat of her gaze, wilts a little, "You are angry?"

"I am," strange, how cool her tone remains, no emotion, no wavering.

"Then Cillian apologizes," he frowns, taps the knife lightly against his lower lip, "For arriving too late. I tried so hard, very hard indeed, to return quickly. But not even Cillian moves quickly enough it seems. Taylor was faster, miserably fast, miserable man." The green eyes burn with absolute loathing; the knife is suddenly winging forward in a deadly arc.

"Cillian!" The sharp quality of her tone causes him pause, the blade pausing before it breaks skin. She feels something sickeningly similar to fear boiling in the back of her mind as he presses it gently against the flesh of his throat, a thin, delicate line of red marring the skin there. Calculates how quickly she moves, whether she could intercept him before the strike is fatal. To her chagrin, no matter how she figures it she'll be a fraction of a second too slow. But his focus remains on her and so she forces her tone to smooth, to pacify.

She takes a step towards him, holds a hand out wide. For the moment, he remains placid, head cocked curiously to the side. The knife remains but it's ceased its forward motion. "Do you love me, Cillian?" Funny, how easily the question returns to her. Familiar and easy, detached as if another woman asks it.

The question leaves him visibly torn, letting out a displeased whine as he glances between the fallen Commander and the lieutenant. The knife wavers momentarily and she takes another step forward, lessens the distance between them. She pauses between steps, allows him to adjust to her proximity, "Yes." The moment the word leaves his mouth he nods as if hearing them somehow reaffirms them in his mind, clears aside some strange fog. "Cillian loves you, pretty thing." Her smile (too toothy, too feral to every be anything other than false) inspires an echoing one in him, "And you will come with me and be safe, yes?" Pleading.

"I can't leave here, Cillian." Another step, another step closer.

"Lies, lies, _lies_."

She holds out a pacifying hand, her right still resting behind her back, finding the knife there. "It's going to be alright." And it is.

His eyes narrow as she draws nearer, fixes on the rapidly forming discolorations across her skin, purples and blacks originating near her clavicle trailing lower. Their origin is fairly obvious and it has the Sixer snarling, "Taylor did this! Taylor hurt you, broke poor Alicia!" He rounds on the fallen man, green eyes blazing.

"Hey, hey, focus here. Alright. Everything's alright. I need you to breathe." She reaches out, fingers brushing against his shoulder.

For all his sick affection for her, he whirls on her, the contact snapping some delicate balance. The edge of his blade leaves a long gash across the palm of her hand, crimson blossoming from the wound. It's surprise more than pain that registers. Even still, she retains her calm, forces the pain to an acceptable thrumming.

Horror floods his face and he clutches at her desperately, the knife clattering to the floor as he drops to his knees, clutches her to him desperately. He buries his face in the fabric of her shirt, moves her hand to his cheek, howls a little as her blood stains his skin, "Poor Alicia, poor, beautiful, angelic Alicia, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me."

She brushes hair back from his face, a wan smile turning her features; right hand tightens on the blade still tucked safely behind her. "Cillian…"

"Yes….?"

"Do you love me?"

"Yes, yes, yes, my beautiful, perfect, angel. Always, always, always!"

"And you'll never leave me, will you?" She know the answer before she asks the question, but a part of her demands she voice it. Needs to hear the answer, needs to assuage something (not guilt, never guilt). With her blood trickling down across his skin, the red leaving streaks down the side of his face, down the bridge of his nose, the green of his eyes is only rendered brighter. More alive, more mad, more desperate.

A wobbly smile turns his features, he holds her to him more closely, murmurs against her skin, "Not as long as Cillian breathes."

And she doesn't for a second doubt him. She glances towards her superior officer, feels the rage turn in her stomach as she takes in his wounds once more. Takes an infinitesimal step back, tightens her grip.

* * *

><p>"Wash!" Shannon hears the panic in his voice, too far gone to care how he sounds to anyone else. It's a far cry from his usual composure and a few civilians poke their heads out, curious as to why their sheriff is tearing down the colony streets in the dead of night as if the devil is on his heels. He nearly collides with her door, pounds on it. Her home is unnaturally silent and it sends a cold pang of fear through him, nerves fraying with each passing second, "C'mon, Wash, open up. Is everything alright?"<p>

No answer. His fingers curl around his weapon, the familiar weight a comfort in his hands. The door is unlocked; he's willing to risk her ire. He nudges it open, frowns at the darkness. It's unfortunate; the night is cloudy and there is very little natural moonlight. It spills through the door, dyes the inside of her home a sallow grey. The familiar iron tinged smell of blood instantly greets him, permeates the very air.

"Wash?" He holds the sonic blaster at the ready, listens intently for any sound of movement. There's nothing. Nothing at all. No wind, no nature, no breathing; just the smell of blood, the cloying scent of death hanging like a shroud replacing the earthy quality that usually flits about her home. He stifles the desire to panic, to tear the house apart searching for her and summons his rationality. Wash is a strong woman; if something had happened there'd be far more than just the scent of blood. The damn stuff would be everywhere.

A part of him knows it's a desperate rationalization; the rest of him doesn't give a damn. He runs a hand along the wall, searches for the lights. It takes a moment but his fingers brush against the switch, flooding the room with the familiar low orange glow of the chem. lights.

The genesis of the smell is obvious immediately. Their Sixer friend lies face down in a pool of his own blood, the sickening liquid spilling across the once immaculate tiles. He takes a long breath, nudges him with the toe of his boot. It's more than evident that he's dead; green eyes stare lifelessly forward, the glassy quality more than slightly disturbing. He frowns at the gore but cannot deny that it brings him a sense of relief. As desperately as Elizabeth opposes "frontier justice," Jim cannot deny that some men are better off dead. The Sixer is one of them and he cannot mourn his passing.

He holsters his pistol, glances about. There are signs of a struggle but none of the house's mistress. The sheriff cocks his head lightly to the side; there's a smear of blood, not terribly noticeable, leading down the hall. He follows it, calls again, "Wash, you here?" The door to her bedroom is closed. He raps lightly against the surface.

A tired voice, one he vaguely recognizes as his friends, replies from the other side and he suffers the most irrational surge of relief, "It's open, Shannon." He's inside the room almost before the words finish leaving her mouth, searching for a danger no longer present. The man takes one look at her state of undress, the half naked entirely unconscious Commander on her bed, the corpse in her living room, opens his mouth, shuts it. Then simply shakes his head, "Do I even want to know what I've walked in on?"

"There's a dead man on my floor, Shannon, what do you think happened?"

"Sometimes I just don't know with you, Wash," it has the cadence of a joke, but his face grows uncharacteristically serious. She looks, if he's being generous, like hell. A goodly portion of the color has been stolen away from her skin, exhaustion ebbing her natural grace. The dark hair is matted to her head, angry purple splotches begin at her neck, dip far lower. He simply ignores the fact that she's basically naked, the Commander's shirt barely covering her. Even that is covered with a goodly portion of blood. She sitting on the edge of the bed, tying a bandage around her hand. Without bothering to ask permission, he takes a seat beside her, "You alright?"

"It's nothing I haven't dealt with before."

"That isn't what I asked."

The stubborn woman simply shakes her head, offers him a smile (and he knows she tries to repress the expression from the way it wavers near the corner of her lips). She offers him the fabric, holds out her hand. An ugly gash is spread across her palm, the cut undeniably awkwardly placed. It's enough to appease the man and he doesn't push again, simply takes the bandage and begins looping it about the laceration. It's going to need stitches, but she certainly can't treat herself and, despite his wife's impressive medical talents, Shannon is in no way qualified to assist her. Wash lets out a sigh as he goes about the task.

"Want to tell me what happened?"

"No."

He smiles, "That's my girl. Was worried about you for a second there," she rolls her eyes but her spirits do seems a little lighter. Shannon purses his lips, tosses a glance towards the sleeping Commander. He doesn't ask about their undress, or the marks across her skin, the cuts across Taylor's shoulders (their origin is obvious), because frankly, he doesn't give a damn what they do together, regulations or otherwise. If they're happy, he wishes his friends all the luck in the world. And while it's in his nature to tease (and it's undoubtedly his god given right to harp on this until doomsday doth come, till Wash is furious and chasing him into the jungle) Shannon knows when to prod and when to let things lie. This is something too new to taunt her over. So he simply asks, "Is our fearless leader doing alright?"

She silently thanks him for his selective words; he nods his acceptance, "A few bruises to his rib cage, maybe a slight concussion. He'll need medical attention but from what I can tell it's nothing serious."

"Always good to hear," he ties off the bandage; all things considered it doesn't look half bad. He stands, extends a hand to her despite knowing she won't take it. Her eyes flash with amusement and she stands, gently bats his hand aside.

"Come on, Shannon."

"Come on what, Wash? Haven't I done my duty as a friend?"

"You broke into my house. The least you can do is help me get the Commander to medical," both of them fight valiantly to repress their smirks, enjoying the pointless banter. She demands he assist her, knows he'd intended it from the start. He fights, already having set his heart on accompanying her, whether she wants him to or not. It's a familiar pattern and they fall back into it with relish.

He slings one of the older man's arms over his shoulder, waits for Wash to prepare herself on the other side. Taylor groans but doesn't speak, "I'll get some guys over to clean up your um…work." She snorts but doesn't protest. The last thing she needs to come home to is a living room full of blood.

When Shannon doesn't move immediately she rounds on him, "What are you waiting for? Let's get moving."

He shifts to take more of Taylor's weight, makes an idle motion indicating her figure with his free hand, "Not that your legs aren't lovely or anything, but you might want to consider adding a bit to your outfit. Like pants, pants are _always_ good. Just, you know, an idea." Wash doesn't look in the least embarrassed, simply scowls. She disappears down the hall. When she returns a moment later she's donned the fatigues she'd been wearing earlier in the day. He notes with no small amount of amusement that she's still clad in her superior's shirt, the collar hanging open perhaps a little wider than propriety dictates. No words are exchanged as they leave her home. They are, in fact, halfway down the street before he speaks again, his tone dripping with undeniable mischief.

"Nice hickies, by the way."

He throws her a sideways glance. She's trying valiantly to summon something like embarrassment to the fore. Instead, she simply looks unabashedly amused. And perhaps a little proud.

"Shut up, Shannon."

He can't help but smile; that's his girl.

* * *

><p>About an hour later, Elizabeth discharges them, declares them both entirely healthy. She advises Taylor to take things lightly for a few days to spare his bruised ribs (and scowls at him fiercely when he purses his lips, posture denoting he's taking offense to his suggestions), and stitches Wash's hand. The cut isn't terribly bad and gives them little trouble. Snickers over the marks across the lieutenant's chest and abdomen (Wash is fairly certain she's never turned as red as when the doctor gives her a cheeky smile and mutters, "Well done, Commander Taylor.") and advises she wear something with a higher collar for the next few days.<p>

Taylor refuses to allow Alicia to assist him as they leave his pride undoubtedly still smarting from being overtaken by the smaller man. She'll tease him about it later but at the moment she's feeling uncharacteristically merciful.

They pause briefly, and she looks miserably down the road towards her home. The lights are all on, more than a few shadows moving about, attempting to clean up her, as Shannon so delicately put it, _work_. She feels Taylor clasp a hand on her shoulder, regards him with a raised brow.

His voice is still tinged with something she recognizes as exhaustion. It's little more than a subtle shift in tone for the composed man but she's known him long enough to catch it, "You're welcome to stay at my place a while, Wash. Until…" he motions airily, "That's finished."

The offer sends an almost irrational pleasure through her, most undignified for a woman of her rank. So she resorts to a more defensive tactic, teases, "Oh yeah? What'll that cost me?"

"Considering it making up for your last boyfriend clobbering me with your rifle."

She snorts, "You place enough blame in that sentence, sir?"

"One of the perks of being Commanding Officer," she shrugs lightly.

Jim and Elizabeth simply shake their heads, watching the pair head down the street. When they believe they are safely out of sight Wash slips her hand into the Commanders, leans her head ever so slightly against his shoulder. It's a simple movement but it's undeniably fond.

The sheriff of Terra Nova wraps an arm around his wife's shoulder, lets out a withering sigh, "Those kids have issues."

"Personally, I think it's adorable."

Shannon chuckles, presses a kiss to her forehead, "If you say so, sweetheart."

They stare after the departing duo a moment longer, neither able to conceal their smiles as their friends duck inside the Commander's home.

* * *

><p>An: Cheesy ending is cheesy but I regret nothing. AND LO! We're done. It's finished. And to think, it was going to be a one shot. Boy was I wrong. I'd like to thank all you lovely beings for sticking with me through all this craziness. It's been a pleasure talking with all of you. And here's hoping that Monday turns out well for us. And if it doesn't…. (*readies pitch fork*) Well, it'll all be good.

Now if you'll excuse me…I do believe I've got a collab with Inu to tend to. And a Lucas/Wash hatemance to develop just to tick the aforementioned Inu off. xD Because I'm evil like that.

Once again, thank you all. You're all so wonderfully, perfectly excellent. It's been a delight.


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